


Our Bodies, Possessed by Light

by Devilinthebox (princegrisejoie)



Category: Death Note
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Alternate Universe - Photographer, Art School, Complicated Relationships, Demisexuality, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, First Meetings, Illustrated, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Insomnia, Mild Sexual Content, Multi, Mystery, Obsessive Behavior, POV Alternating, POV Multiple, POV Third Person Limited, Past Character Death, Past Drug Addiction, Past Relationship(s), Plot Twists, Possessive Behavior, Singing, Unreliable Narrator, Writers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-03-09 20:23:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 81,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3263192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princegrisejoie/pseuds/Devilinthebox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>L. Lawliet is a gifted photographer who believes he has understood the light and its secrets. Light Yagami is a young, unstable and slightly crooked model. Together, they kill time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Light

**Author's Note:**

> I want to say English is not my first language. This is not the first fanfic I write in English but for some reason I feel I should tell you. I owe this brilliant AU idea to my sister, thank you again!  
> This is *supposed* to be a one-shot but if it pleases you guys I'm willing to try my luck at a multi-chaptered fanfic since I have a lot of ideas about this AU :) Including Mello, Near, Naomi and the rest of the clique.  
> (For that reason the ending is quite...well, very open)  
> The title comes from one of Richard Siken's wonderful piece of poetry  
> I think that's all. <3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can now LISTEN to this! Thank you Dana: http://danathelaugh.tumblr.com/post/113690509231/danathelaugh-our-bodies-possessed-by

 

_Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us._  
_These, our bodies, possessed by light._  
_Tell me we'll never get used to it._  
(R. Siken)

 

* * *

 

**photography (n.) ; from photo- + -graphy, “writing with light”.**

 

The camera is just another eye, really. A convenient way to observe, analyse and undress without being seen. Even better: it makes them all long for his look. He is a photographer; a talented one. He has the right to stare and watch their every move because his models let him.

But L is not a voyeur or if he is, he refuses to be just that. His tutor once told him he could have been a detective. L gave him a faint smile and answered: _but a photographer is a detective of sorts, Mr Wammy._

It feels true. L specialises in portraits. As much as he enjoys beautiful landscapes and the colours of the evening sky, they fail to get the adrenaline going.  Those who crave the flashes of his camera and relish his looks, however insistent, those are the ones he works for.

Models fascinate him because they bathe in the unforgiving light while he has settled for the shadows; only for fear of injuries. Darkness wraps its arms around you, whispers in your ear, protects you like a friend. Light has a good reputation and for a while, it lives up to it. Light warms you and make promises. It takes only one picture for the tables to turn, for the light to make you hate yourself.   

But the light fascinates L and those who manage to stand in it undamaged leave him awestruck. Obsession is dangerous. L knows that, so he refuses to play the part of the butterfly, burnt alive by the shining light he loved so. He plays with the light and uses it in his photographs. He understands the light. He tames the light.

That's what he thinks.

The day L meets Yagami is just another day of work and Yagami is just another butterfly, longing for the light. He is a young Japanese model, precise and elegant in every way. At the time, L works for some fashion magazine he doesn't care about. They call him when they need him. It's practical and he appreciates that they are the one asking for him. He has never even opened the magazine. L only cares about the models anyway and he gets to see them in the flesh - fluttering eyelashes at his camera, waiting for him to make them immortal. (Humans die but pictures are forever. They smile when L tells them that. That's what they want to hear.)

L has heard of Yagami before but can't remember how. He remembers his eyelashes and those spectacular legs, he remembers thinking of symmetry and apollonian beauty. Most importantly, he remembers his name. Would Light Yagami care to know how L has heard of him? Does anything matter, really, when you look like that? We would never ask the gracious moon to worry about other satellites. It would be so hypocritical of us; the moon is the only satellite we know the name of.

L is a genius, and if beauty has anything in common with brilliance, it's the sense of superiority it gives you. By common standards, L is not beautiful. He figures the universe works in logical ways after all - you can't have everything. Still, he wonders if God picks favorites, sometimes. Ugly idiots exist, so why are brilliant beauties so unusual? L finds himself fantasizing about a body inhabited by a mind matching his. How incredibly powerful would such a creature feel. He almost pities it. Absolute power is not for everyone to wield.

L finds he has plenty of power himself, so he is not envious when he discovers Light Yagami is the creature he spent nights making up in his head.

L is not envious. What he feels is an aching pain in his chest, a dull blade sinking into his body. It messes with his organs, squashes them, and crushes them mercilessly – what for? To make room for something else, for the light to fill him up.

*

Light appears in L’s studio on a Sunday morning, almost as the same time as the sun in the winter sky. He shows up unexpectedly. Nobody ever does that to L. He has laid out very precise rules over the years no one dares to transgress. Mainly because it would be unproductive: L will not open the door to anyone he hasn’t invited. He never answers his personal phone right away either. L claims it it’s how he separate his friends from the rest. Mr Wammy says it’s a wile to keep others at bay. These days, Mihael is the only one who still calls him on his personal phone but L doesn’t mind. He rarely changes his mind on things like this.

Light Yagami knocks twice. L ignores the first knock, as always. He bends over the series of black and white photographs he just finished developing. At that point, he fully expects the intruder to walk away. L is already deep in thought when he hears the second knock.

He gives a look of sheer annoyance in thin air and goes to open the door.

L is used to beauty; contrary to a lot of his colleagues, he grew tired of it over time. What fascinates him has always been the light, the control he asserted over it with each prized picture he took.

He is facing Yagami for the first time and feels betrayed. Sick. Models aren’t supposed to look better in the flesh; they depend on their photographs to maintain the illusion of flawlessness. He has seen hundreds of models before, and he knew about Yagami’s perfect legs and eyes and everything _, he should be able to, at least, breathe._

“I am not supposed to see you before Thursday, Mr Yagami," he states, barely aware of his own voice.

Yagami doesn’t lose his composure at all despite L’s very cold tone of voice. He removes his fingerless gloves and his Prussian blue overcoat.

“My agent told me. I prefer to have a look at the studio beforehand, though. Don’t take it personally, it’s a simple precaution," Light says with a discreet Japanese accent. He has a charming, if slightly honeyed voice. L doesn’t believe a word he utters. They say it’s unfair to rely on a first impression. L never believed that. It might be true when you have no instinct. As for him, he can recognize a liar, however convincing his facade may be.

“Of course, the best way to make sure I’m not some kind of psychopath is to come visit me. I’d better get rid of the bodies I hid in the darkroom, then.”

Light gives a thin smile, the mask remains firmly in place.

“You don’t believe me.” He seems weirdly impressed.

“So, you’re clever. You must feel quite lonely in your line of work.”

Yagami doesn’t look offended by the assumption that most models are idiots. He stays silent and looks at L expectantly. There is a hint of hope in his eyes that makes L swallow.

L thinks he’d better send him off now but his body steps aside and invites Light into the studio.

“What would you like to see?” L says, closing the door behind him.

Light doesn’t seem to hear him. He puts down his coat and designer bag on a chair and turns around the furniture, examining every nook and cranny, taking mental notes on everything. Even though L hardly leaves any personal belonging in the studio, he feels a wave of inexplicable anxiety at the sight of someone examining his workplace with such inexplicable zeal.

“Could you open the curtains? It’s hard to see anything at all," Light says.

“Mh," is all L answers. He motions Light to pull the curtains back himself. When he is not snapping photographs, L keeps his studio as dark as possible. Light seems to find it odd.

“Don’t you love the light, Mr Lawliet?” he asks, soft-spoken as always. L catches a glimpse of pride in his eyes. Is he really proud of that _rhyme_?

“I appreciate it. However, I’m afraid the feeling isn’t mutual.”

Light turns around to face L, an expression of genuine concern on his face. “What do you mean?”

Taken by surprise by the sincerity of his question, L can’t think of a lie.

“Well, it tends to highlight how terribly sickly I look," he says, and for some reason he pretends to turn his attention to the black and white photographs he has left on the table.

“I find it fitting for an artist to look at least a bit sickly. Why should this be a bad thing?”

It doesn’t sound like a question at all. L has no clue what he is supposed to answer. Light doesn’t expect anything apparently; his attention has already shifted from L to the framed photographs displayed on the wall opposite to the main studio area.

L’s look slides back to Light. Then, he feels _something_ coursing through his veins, and it isn’t some drug, it isn’t even adrenaline. Yagami’s profile looks perfect, graceful features outlined by the shining light. It’s rare to be loved by the light, L knows. He has seen it destroy perfectly symmetrical faces before he mastered the art of exposure. It took three years for Mihael to forgive him and even now he takes a step back whenever he sees L with a camera.

L stares at Light, arms crossed, leaning against the doorway into the adjacent kitchen. He is not one for daydreaming; he is painfully _aware_ that he has been staring for too long. Somehow, he is certain that Yagami feels it. There is a slight blush on his face and his back arches slightly under each invasive glance L shots at him – photographers have an eye for details.

Light turns around and his hazel, expressive eyes meet L’s once again.

“I really do love your work," he announces.

L has received a handful of laudatory reviews over the years. He can’t remember any of them; he never needed them. Light’s comment hardly qualifies as a review but it leaves him wondering.

“I must say I’m surprised. You don’t look like my usual fan”

Light smiles. “How do they look like, your usual _fans_?”

“Undertakers and Goths, for the most part," L answers, deadpan.

Once, Nate informed him that some of his old pictures were all over Pinterest; he nearly choked when he read the captions some melancholic teenagers added on them. Nate shrugged as to say ‘What did you expect; you kept on shooting cemeteries and swamps." He still found it outrageous. L loved Nate dearly but he couldn’t take artistic advice from a robotics student.

Even now that he specializes in portraits, his usual fans resemble Mihael. They are writers, romantics and eccentric intellectuals and most of them enjoy Rammstein; they are not Light Yagamis.

“I’ve loved your portraits for the longest time”, Light blurts, his eyes bright and wide open. He seems quite embarrassed but doesn’t let it ruin his perfect posture. He keeps his chin up and his shoulders back, and he advances on L, “That’s why I came, actually.”

L raises an eyebrow. All he thinks of is: _why the hell does it feels like the truth?_

Light is standing close as he explains how L’s photographs are terrifying, expressive and sensual, and certainly not for everyone, but still worthy of praise. L nods pensively while he fails to deduce anything about Yagami’s intentions. He notices that deducing is only one letter away from seducing, and that his chest aches. For a minute, he wonders why he let this unbearably beautiful young man in. A demon is a demon, no matter how mild-mannered and polite.

“So, it’s not the studio you wanted to see, but me," L interrupts.

Yagami opens his mouth but nothing comes out of it, as if he intended to lie but renounced. L makes up the missing words in his head as he pleases ( _let’s end this now, take me somewhere, slam your body into mine_ ) and finds it hard not to say them out loud. _Snap out of it, already!_

“Yes. I have been interested in your artwork...for a long time," Yagami repeats. There’s more to it than a mere interest, L guesses. He slides away from Yagami into the kitchen and tries not to forget what just happened – whatever _that_ was.

“Since you’re here, I suppose I should at least offer you a cup of tea," L says.

“That’s the polite thing to do, yes,” Light answers. “Two sugars, please.”

L detects a hint of frustration in his tone – it’s obvious Light has come with a plan in mind and the pieces aren’t quite falling to place.

The model sits, legs crossed, at the kitchen table. He folds his arms on his tight-fitted blazer, glances at himself in the window. In the reflection, he notices the black and white photographs L has left there and there is a spark in his eyes. Light looks up. L is pouring water over the tea, his back turned on him.

“So, have you heard of me before?” Light says, as he gets his hands on the photographs.

“I have. I can’t remember how, though. Not that it matters, does it?”

L pours tea in two plain-looking cups. He is thankful for the paranoid streak that leads him never to bring any of his ridiculous mugs at the studio. Light Yagami’s mind seems to function in mysterious ways; what would he deduce from a mug with Salvador Dali’s “I don’t do drugs, I am drugs” written on it?

He turns his head to a cheeky-looking Yagami. He’s examining L’s photographs, his mouth quirked up into an enigmatic smile. The sheer image of cockiness. L clenches his jaw. What it is with him that catches the eye when every single thing he does is irritating?

L plunks the mug on the kitchen table.

“Can I _help_ you?” he grits out.

“Did I overstep? I apologize,” Light says, still smirking. “They were laying on the table, It didn’t occur to me that – “

“Spare me the courtesies," L interrupts, “Since you’ve looked at them tell me, what do you think?”  He sits across from Light.

“Well…”

“Honestly. Why the smirk? Why the cockiness?”

Light sighs, glances sideways – displays of irritation so typical L wonders if he rehearsed them.

“I found it amusing that you take pictures of the moon in your spare time.”

L’s pale hand goes for his mug. “I’m a man of multiple talents. Are you models so vain that you believe your pretty faces can satisfy us artists?”

Light frowns. “Why are you so hostile? I have shown nothing but respect to you.”

“Except when you showed up uninvited.”

“I didn’t force my way in," Light reminds him. L is frustrated not to be able to argue that and struggles to maintain eye contact. “You could have send me off.”

L stays silent for a minute and slides the other mug over the table towards Light. “Drink. It’s a Japanese Sencha. A favourite of mine.”

Light rolls the sleeves of his blazer and obeys. For a moment, there is only the sound of L swallowing his tea; Light sips silently. The salty fragrance of green tea smoothes the atmosphere.

“I know why the pictures made you smile," L finally says, “Your name is Light, written with the Kanji for ‘Moon’, right?”

Light’s face brightens at that and L thinks he is as unpredictable as the heavenly body his name shares its Kanji with.

“You’re right. I thought it was a beautiful coincidence," Light admits. It sounds like the truth but his arms and legs are still crossed. _What does it take for the facade to quiver just a bit?_

L gives a faint smile. “Perhaps we’re meant to work together, in spite of the differences.”

It sounded less corny in his head. Yagami answered with a smile and immediately changed the subject.

“Isn’t the moon a bit of a photography cliché?”

Was L supposed to confess his fascination for the moonlight? It was mendacious and terribly beautiful – a photographer’s dream; he felt he was the only one in the field to understand it.

“I don’t let clichés get in my way”, L says instead, “I even photograph _pastries_. Just any pose is flattering on them.”

Light lets out a polite laugh. Whether he truly appreciated L’s joke or not is hard to tell.

“What pose would flatter me the most, you think? I heard you have the eye for that.”

It sounds like a trick question but L decides honesty is the best policy. Yagami seems rather unsettled by sincerity in general.

“Any angle would flatter you; only the feeling you’d convey would change, really.”

 _Bingo._ Yagami’s polite smile doesn’t fade; yet, he looks away for a second.

“I suppose I should thank you”, he says, getting back into his armor of courtesies. He pauses and locks his eyes on L’s: “I wonder if I should give any credit to the nasty comments I heard about you.”

L guesses which comments he is referring to. He introduces every photoshoot by pointing out his model’s insecurities. They all have a few, not even the vainest ones are spared. He wonders if Light has any.

“Perhaps it’s a bit harsh, but a photographer has to work on his model’s insecurities. I sometimes center my picture on a hooked nose. I have no choice but to notice the insecurities myself. I could ask them, but then all I’d get would be a lie.”

“I’m sure you don’t need to point it out for them to guess what their insecurities are. Don’t they say you’re a genius?” Light replies. He leans back and folds his arms again.

“I need my model to be completely honest with me”, L admits, “This is how I work and I don’t give a damn that it doesn’t please everyone. I’m a photographer, and not the attention whore kind. I am not a narcissist; I will not sacrifice my integrity to fuel my ego with empty praises.”

L’s remark finally sets Light off. Although L is fairly certain Yagami is still hiding under plenty of tight-fitting masks.

“Oh, is that so?” Yagami says, his voice eerily quiet.

He pauses, and then: “Well, keep looking then. I can’t work with you.”

L raises an eyebrow. “…Pardon?”

Light eyes him like he’s an unwanted admirer who can’t take no for an answer.

“I will tell you what I said to one of your colleagues a week ago: I don’t do nudes.”

“I was certainly not asking you to – “

“You’re an intelligent man, Mr Lawliet. You perfectly understand me. You intend to strip me off to my skin and this is not something I can accept. You’re not an attention whore; well, me neither. I’m not desperate for work, and since you don’t live up to my expectations, I think I will collaborate with someone who respects me.”

Yagami rises, L mirrors the gesture. “This is simply absurd! You and I have an appointment on Thursday.”

                                                                                       

L follows him as he retreats towards the door.

“I can very well cancel an appointment," Light retorts, tying his scarf in a Parisian knot. He smoothes it and turns to L, his face indecipherable.

L wants to take him apart and figure out just _how_ he works. He can’t tear his eyes away from Light Yagami, he doesn’t want to. He feels sick again.

“If you ever change your ways, contact me. You have a gift. I’d love to pose for you as long as you respect my privacy.”

The door closes. L stares off into space for a minute, desperately trying to make sense of it all. He is not one for daydreaming, so he can’t convince himself he has made everything up; that Light Yagami is just a glimpse of the alter-ego he was desperate to meet. _We’re meant to work together._

Yagami leaves him alone with his heart hammering in his chest, an inconceivable lust burning in him. His fingers itch for a camera but it’s too late, he’s gone.

L snaps out of his absurd musings at last and the first thing he does is pulling the curtains back together. It’s before the sun has set that he notices his photographs of the moon are missing.


	2. Actors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thank you all for the amazing comments and the general feedback on this. This is truly unexpected and I am so, so grateful. Thank you. (Lex, as always but also Karina in particular because I value your opinion a LOT)  
> You get some of Light’s backstory but still…not everything just yet! I have no idea how long this story will last but I hope you stay with me till the end! I spent an embarrassing amount of time thinking about this story this week so.  
> [[LISTEN TO THIS]](http://danathelaugh.tumblr.com/post/113966488471/our-bodies-possessed-by-light-by-mellodear) (thanks Dana dear)

* * *

 

 _Comme tu as pris soin_ _qu’elle brille de loin_ _ta surface lisse.  
**Tu m'donnes le mal, Noir Désir**_

* * *

 

 

## LIGHT

Nobody takes pleasure in lying. Some do it by necessity, other out of guilt. Few lies are motivated by cruelty. Lies are coward’s weapon after all; a sniper rifle with a silencer, painless poison, and it provides the cruel man no satisfaction. Those who lie are protecting themselves. For Light, the lie is a shield. He pretends it’s a double-edged sword he learnt to wield with reluctance.

But really, it’s a shield he has forgotten how to live without. 

Has there been a time where he didn’t need to lie all the time? It has gotten worse since he moved to England. The truth has become distant as a childhood memory.

He lied the minute he emerged from the aircraft.

“What are you going to do in England? Sorry, I didn’t even ask you." The question had come from the old woman he had spent the entire flight listening to. Light had smiled. He had been wondering when she’d finally ask and was perfectly prepared for it.  

“Visiting relatives," he had answered with a perfect pitch. She had smiled back. They never notice the lies; it gets frustrating at times.

 _Visiting relatives_. Swap ‘visiting’ for ‘escaping” and this is not a lie. Light had been disappointed with himself for that. He should have thought of something that didn’t involve his family. He could have said he was on holidays or starting a new career. He couldn’t help it: the image of his family had been lurking in the corners of his mind. The truth finds its way out of every tale you try to smother it with.

He can’t think of that now.

The people from the agency are amazed by his work. They go on and on about his merits; Light isn’t surprised. He knows how to please; he has an uncanny talent for that. It’s practical, so he doesn’t complain. He could convince a priest that God is dead. Only his morals keep him from being a terrible person. “You should be proud of that”, he tells himself, “You’ve been given the talent of a puppeteer but you refuse to pull the strings”

Part of him despises this job, hates the fact that they all say he excels in it. Everybody can stand straight and smile. There is no glory in that. It’s certainly not what he was born to do.

Still, it’s pleasant to be noticed.

“You should think of making a career out of it”, Kenwood says as they elbow their way through the corridors of the Wammy Art Institute. Art students are swarming from every single room and the massive portfolios they carry aren’t helping.

“It’s a job, a pastime at best. You’re a great agent, and I thank you for your hard work, but I’m not the pretty face you can rest on to launch _your_ career."

Perhaps he was too cold. He bites his lips. It’s these corridors, why are they so narrow? Light can feel his heartbeat; he hates the sensation. Todaï was twice as crowded but they all made way for people like him. He was royalty in these halls. He learnt that at Tokyo University: there are thousands of handsome men but there is only one head of the class, and only he gets crowned.

“I understand, Light," she says. “You have to focus on your studies”

Her tone irritates him. “I can do both – modeling and graduating at the top of my class. I’m just reminding you that it’s a job, nothing more.”

“Well, I can only hope that you change your mind.”

They finally reach room B.23. The door is half-open and Light notices there are already a dozen of art students waiting for their model.

“I won’t. I have bigger plans than fashion.”

Or so he had; but he hasn’t given up just yet.

Kenwood shakes her head, smiling. Nothing seems serious enough to hurt her. “Don’t underestimate the power of appearances. It’s more than just clothes and pretty faces, it’s the art of controlling your image. Use it, but don’t let it become _you_. That’s the best lesson a model can learn.”

“I know," he breathes.

Mary places her perfectly manicured hand on his shoulder, “You’re going to be okay in there?”

He is relieved she decided to change the subject. Light’s look slides to his shoulder and Kenwood understands. She removes her hand.  He forgives her familiarity; she’s American, after all.

“Of course I’ll be fine, they’re _students_ ," Light says.

“Art students with piercing eyes. From what I gather, you get uncomfortable with artists staring at you.”

“I already told you it has nothing to do with him staring or being clearly interested in me. I get that often.”

Kenwood looks at him curiously over her trademark sunglasses. Something must have been off with his tone.

“Why did you cancel the appointment, then? You prefer to pose for art students? You know Lawliet is very talented. I can only imagine how stunning his pictures of you would have looked.”

“He wants to understand everything, to _know_ everything. I don’t need that at the moment.”

Or _ever_. Of course, the meaning of his words is lost on her and she looks at him in disbelief.

 “That’s his style. You’re the one who asked me to contact him. I thought you loved his portraits.”

“I admire his talent, but I can’t work with him. We’re too different.”

 Light pauses. “He asks too much. It’s insane.”

He looks away towards the classroom. Some of the students are peering out, eager to discover what their assignment looks like. Hopefully they can draw long legs and cheekbones and will stop at that. Yes, _hopefully_ , they won’t try to understand him.

Light feels L’s gaze on him and represses a shudder. He is horrified at the realization that he misses it. It was intense, not invasive. It doesn’t matter, he decides, intensity is too dangerous. That’s certainly not what he wants.

 

## L

“That guy is a nutcase,” Mihael says as soon L is finished telling them about Light Yagami.

L raises an eyebrow. “It’s too early to say, don’t you think?”  He doesn’t rule out the possibility that something complex might be going on in Yagami’s mind. Excitement pulses as a heartbeat inside him.

“He stole your pictures," Mihael retorts, “And they weren’t even pictures of _you_. It’s worse than a stalker.”

Nate hasn’t looked up from his model rocket once since L has joined them at the table. L doesn’t expect him to do so. He respects Nate’s obsession with intricate puzzles. That, and he doesn’t count on his advice on the matter of Yagami.  Mihael, on the other hand, is a writer – an explorer of the human heart and the most sensible observer L knows. Though L has trouble admitting it, he wouldn’t have left his warm friend cocaine without Mihael’s help. He is so keen never to disappoint that the only person he ends up leaving out is himself.

No, Mihael never disappoints. Except when he lets jealousy cloud his judgment. L can’t help but judging him on that.

“I was expecting more subtlety from you, Mihael,” L sighs.

Mihael rolls his eyes. “You want me to overanalyze this? Okay.” He glances around the café and decides it’s crowded enough for their conversation not to be overheard.

“Let’s say…Yagami has been obsessing over your work since he arrived in England. Wait, no, obviously he left Japan for _you_. He waited for the chance to work with you and when it finally arrives, you ruin everything by being human and not the fantasy he spent days making up in his head. Then, because he’s a fucking stalker, he steals your unpublished pictures of the moon from you, so he can convince himself you took them thinking of him, Light “ _Tsuki_ ” Yagami.”

L rolls his eyes “I wasn’t asking you to write some disturbing 20 shades of gray rip-off."

“You were asking me for my honest opinion on that guy. There it is. My blunt, unfiltered opinion.”

“Thank you, Mihael, for your unbiased opinion," L snaps.

Then, he looks at Nate from the corner of his eye, hoping he will understand the signal and stop smirking. He doesn’t.

 “And you, Nate, what do you think?”

“I could give you my opinion on someone I don’t know, which isn’t a problem really," Nate answers, his quiet voice beautifully contrasting with Mihael’s nervous way of speaking.

“Or…” he continues, his eyes fixed on his model rocket, “I could ask you why you’d come to us for relationship advice when it’s something you never ever do.”

There is an uncomfortable silence during which Mihael tries not to smile in solidarity with Nate. As a self-proclaimed rebel, he doesn’t believe in rules. He has the tendency to break his own rules, something that L finds quite disturbing. The only rules he vowed never to break revolve around Nate. Some are sweet, but most of them stem from his nagging inferiority complex – a terrible feeling L is grateful never to have experienced. Mihael considers it a priority never to agree with Nate. In case of a zombie apocalypse, chances are he’d find a way to argue he is a spy for the undead army and can’t be trusted.

Still, Mihael agrees with him more often than he’d like to admit.

“You’ve got it wrong, Nathaniel," L says, intentionally dropping the nickname for the sake of dramatization.

Nate doesn’t need to roll his eyes to express his lassitude. His voice does the job for him: “How am I wrong?”

“I am not asking for advice. I was just informing you. I know exactly what I’m going to do.”

Mihael drops his gaze to glance at L’s hands. His long fingers tighten up on his spoon and he still hasn’t finished his Belgian chocolate teacake. He’s all but nervous and excited. Mihael feels something stirring in the pit of his stomach. Nothing worth talking about, just a flicker of anxiety. A bad omen.

Mihael looks up and locks his piercing blue eyes on L’s face. L doesn’t notice the look of concern on his face. Nate does, but Mihael doesn’t know that.

L  has turned to watch a woman pushing the coffee shop’s door. He internally praises Naomi for her punctuality. She glances around and, sharp as ever, notices them quickly.

“You’re going to catch a cold”, Mihael says as she joins them, “You’re soaked wet.”

“I’m not fond of umbrellas," she explains. She gives Nate a faint smile as he looks up his model rocket to silently greet her.

It’s raining but she wouldn’t put on a coat unless it is really freezing. She is strangely attached to her leather jacket. ‘We all have our obsessions, I suppose’, she had told L once. That was the moment he decided she was worthy of his attention. He never regretted it. Naomi did everything with diligence. More importantly, she was prudent – she wouldn’t utter a sentence her mind hasn’t cautiously examined.

“You’d get along with my roommate," Mihael tells Naomi with a deadpan expression. L nods discreetly to signify her it’s meant as a compliment.

She orders a black coffee with no sugar, sending L a wink. Why is she attracted to bitterness, he would never comprehend. He prefers his food sweet and savory. It doesn’t apply to humans, though. He loves walking enigmas; he always dreamt of unraveling one. There is something delightful in a honeyed voice turning sour.

Until now, he never thought he would be granted his wish. If he had felt frustration after Yagami’s visit, it was long gone. Adrenaline makes you forget the petty things.

“So, what do you need me for this time? Is it about a case?” Misora asks. There is no trace of resentment in her tone. She figured out how L works – not his mind, of course. That’s a mechanism too complex for anyone to understand. But she has a good idea of the way he feels. Intensely. Uncompromisingly. He’s guarded for a reason. She considers his friendship a privilege, when others would feel used. Screw others, she muses, they will away leave people like him alone.

“No, not this time," L says. She lifts an eyebrow. She and L are not the kind of friends you see hanging out often. They have every reason to trust each other but none of them requires the other’s company. Usually, he calls her to discuss some case he has set his mind on. She’s a detective, he’s a photographer – both enjoy a good mystery.

“Then what is it? I already told you, I’m not photogenic.”

“Don’t worry, he will not ask you to pose for him again. He’s found his Muse," Mihael says before L can answer.

L narrows his eyes. “Be serious, Mihael." He slides the last issue of _Pop_ towards Naomi, opens it. “It’s him.”

Naomi’s eyes widen. “It’s Light Yagami, isn’t it?”

Nate and Mihael exchange a look, their expression equally puzzled. Misora is only interested in fashion when there’s leather. There is no way she would recognize a mildly famous model just by looking at a picture.

“What do you know?” L snaps, “Tell me!”

“I know his agent," Misora says, “We went to high school together.”

“She told you about him?”

“Yes…she was excited. ‘ _He will launch my career, that boy’_ she told me. For a minute I was under the impression he had been specially chosen by Anna Wintour as the next David Gandy.”

She pauses.  Then, “I only know these people because she’s constantly talking about them.”

“What the hell, he’s not even been on a runway yet, right," Mihael grumbles.

“Since when are you interested in runways?” Nate asks. Mihael eyes him like he has just challenged him to a duel.

L sighs. “This is not the time.  Tell me, Naomi – why does it feel like I know him?”

“But, Law –“

“Call me L or don’t call me at all," L interrupts

Naomi rolls her eyes but obeys. “L, doesn’t the name _Yagami_ ring a bell?”

It does.

It doesn’t make sense. He only remembered Light’s name because it’s so unusual. Yet, even when he saw it written under that Burberry (or was it Kenzo) commercial, it already sounded strangely familiar.

“I have three words for you: the Higuchi case.”

And then, it all comes back to him.  “Oh. Yes. _Yes_! That’s exactly it!”

His heart starts hammering in his chest and a shiver shakes his body. He gets up.

“I have to go.”

“Where?” Mihael exclaims, “Don’t tell me – You don’t even know where he is at the moment!”

“Oh Mihael. He stole my pictures”, L’s lips stretch into a childish smile “You didn’t think I wouldn’t keep an eye on him?”

A brief smile crosses Naomi’s face. Nate barely looks up from his work as L hurries to the door.

“What’s so special about him?” Mihael asks. Detecting sadness in his tone, Naomi gives him a compassionate smile.

She decides it’s best to pretend she doesn’t know the answer. But it seems natural that L should be tethered to someone the Japanese police force used to call _the Prodigy_.

 

 

## LIGHT

 

Light sits up straight on the stool, in the rigid pose they asked him to strike.

There are twenty-six students all staring at him and yet he feels invisible. Light wishes it wouldn’t make him so uncomfortable. They can’t see through the layers of designer clothes and well-tailored lies. It shouldn’t be a problem. Yet, it does tire him at times. Nobody even _tries_ to see past that. There is an obsession with nakedness – in every sense of the term. You have to offer yourself on a platter for people to see you. They all ask you to put off a front but praise the honest ones, the bold ones. Why won’t anyone admit that it’s a lie in itself? The honest ones are lying their way through life like everyone else; only, they choose to reveal just enough of their faces to maintain the illusion of sincerity. They’re double-crossing the world one “brutally honest” remark at a time.

“Okay, let’s take five," their teacher announces, snapping Light’s attention back to the classroom. Light stands up and ambles around the room. None of the students come to him, probably because he doesn’t seem real to them. Some hesitate, meet his eyes and immediately renounce.

The room is pleasant and he appreciates that it’s spacious and bright. It’s relaxing. It annoys him. Everything has been easy since he moved to England. Nobody knows him, lying is effortless. Yet, isn’t it exactly what he wanted? He was suffocating in Japan. Here, he can start again. He’ll take the same path and not stray this time. Then he can go back to Japan. He will make Light Yagami spotless again.

Most of the students go out, their bodies itching for the unbearable smell of nicotine. Light allows himself to judge them harshly on this addiction. He’s alone in his own mind, nobody is there to call him out on his hypocrisy. Yet, he still finds excuses - at least, he is addicted to _abstract_ concepts. He is eager to please. It’s not even an addiction, it’s a strategy; the most intelligent way to make it through life. Thrive for perfection, and after a while you’ll be able to mimic it. It’s not a drug, it’s not a poisonous substance that will leave him battered and helpless on a hospital bed.

How many of them lit up their first cigarette because of peer pressure?  That thought makes his stomach twist painfully. The lengths people are willing to go just to feel accepted. Are we all both the puppets and the puppeteers, in the end? Is the world _that_ bleak?

He is over thinking again. Light glances at his watch. It doesn’t appease him. Two minutes and he goes back to work. He still can’t decide if he likes it. He supposes it’s better than the terrible jobs most students have to put up with.

“It’s wonderful, having you here!” the teacher’s voice exclaims behind his back, “It’s been a while.”

“I’d come more often if I could. This place is special.”

For a fraction of a moment, Light is certain he is hallucinating. He did feel _his_ look earlier, and he wasn’t here. His eyes are closed. He tries to summon every drop of courage left in his blood. _As if._

“The school sure misses you. You had a peculiar talent.”

“I haven’t lost it, I assure you. Although I do have trouble finding equally talented models.”

“We have someone very gifted here today; I don’t think you have worked with him.”

“Really? That’s a marvelous coincidence.” It’s obvious he’s lying. Is Light the only one to detect it?

“Mister Yagami," the woman calls out, “There is someone here you should meet.”

Light turns around and locks his eyes on L’s face. He doesn’t really see him; he tries to see past him like he is a ghost.

“We’ve already met.”

The art teacher looks at him in disbelief. “How is it possible that you haven’t taken any pictures, then? You’d make a wonderful team."

“Yes, we would," L has the nerve to say, “And I will make this happen.”

“The Director Wammy is right about you. You don’t love often, but when you do, it’s unconditional. I suppose a photographer must feel something akin to love towards his Muse. I’m rambling. I’ll let you two to talk, then.”

Light’s throat is dry as if he had just screamed. He wants to teleport himself in his Private Law course, where everything is easy and dull and normal.

He crosses his arms. L walks past him. His boots are terribly old-fashioned and he smells of sugar. How ridiculous is that. Yet, there is something about him Light can’t shake off. Everything seems messed up in his attitude but it’s hard to look away. He’s the vague image that always crossed Light’s mind whenever people said: ‘Brilliant artists like that, there is only one per century.' It’s strange that it’s often gloomy-looking people that possess such brilliant minds. They lit up the world and live in the darkness.

“I was certain I had heard of you. At first, I thought I might have seen your pretty face in Dazed or GQ, maybe. That’s not it – well, I did notice you in some magazine you posed for but that wasn’t the first time I heard your name.”

Light stands there – silent and so elegant in his designer outfit. It’s Kenzo. He wonders if L Lawliet guessed that, too. Since he knows everything.

“You’re the National Police Agency’s prodigy. Light Yagami. You helped…well, you practically solved the Higuchi case on your own. You were 17.”

Light closes his eyes. Re-open them. “My bad. I failed to predict you were as clever as you are rude”

“A curriculum lit up with honors, a young man praised by an entire nation. What could have made you run away to England?”

Light’s locks his eyes on him. “You fancy yourself a detective, Lawliet?”

Perhaps he’s less irritating, hidden behind his camera.

“Detectives and photographers better have good instincts," L says holding Light’s gaze unflinchingly.

“You can read the papers. It’s not instinct.”

“What was it that made you leave the mother land? Let me guess. You couldn’t handle the pressure but you couldn’t go back. How could you? It was an honor, working with the police. Still, how stressful it must have been, to be so good, so young.”

Light looks almost impassive but several years’ worth of stress are reflecting in his eyes.

 “You suffocated, tripped and ultimately  _fell_ , didn't you?”

Something twists in Light’s stomach. It’s physical. He ignores it.

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“That’s right. I know absolutely nothing about you – the _real_ you.”

“Let’s keep it that way.”

“Still, I’d love to know more. You’re still studying law. Such a serious pastime for a model. You couldn’t quite give up on the ambitions Daddy had for you, could you?”

There is a flash of…condescension in the photographer’s eyes. Light interpret it that way. Some disjointed part of him watches Light Yagami as his cheeks redden, his body frozen in a burning rage. He urges him to punch Lawliet until he bleeds to death. But Light Yagami is smarter than that. He doesn’t let go.

“It’s the other way around. Modeling is a hobby, Law is my ambition. I’m not looking to launch my career. You can stop bothering me.”

“And yet, you came to see me, the other day," L reminds him. “You act like modeling doesn’t mean anything to you, but it does. I know it.”

_But you have no idea why._

“Does it help you? Is it soothing, to see your face plastered on magazines and yet be assured that nobody will ever understand you?”

L’s words snap a thread in Light’s self-control. Just one thread. He advances on L, still sat nonchalantly on the desk, and grabs his wrist.

“Go away.”

L blinks twice. “Pardon?”

“You’ve overstepped this time," Light says, tightening his grip. L doesn’t move an inch. Does he even feel pain?

L stays silent for a moment. He bites his lip and say: “I understand."

It’s all but a lie. He doesn’t understand at all. That’s why his pupils are dilated. _Excitement_.

“But you’ll have to let me go," he whispers.

Puzzled, Light follows his glance and notices his hand is still firmly gripping L’s wrist. He removes it, leaving only a red trace around L’s pale wrist. 

“Don’t you want your photographs?” Light says to L’s back. He’s leaving already.

“Are you worried about that?” L taunts, “I will get them back eventually.”

 

*

 

L  goes to a Vogue photoshoot after that. It’s an important shoot for his career. He doesn’t say a word, doesn't answer his phone although Mihael calls him twice. Yagami is all over his mind. Everything else is insignificant.

 


	3. Song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only thing I'm going to say is : Beyond Beyond Beyond Beyond Beyond Beyond.  
> That's it. It's the notes. Enjoy!  
> Oh, there are a lot of allusions to the different backstories. All of that will be explored, in time. It's very hard no to give everything away just now, ahah. Also there is a lot of introspection and the such but I had no choice if you want to actually understand them because. Complicated. Intense feelings. Wow.  
> [[LISTEN TO THIS]](http://danathelaugh.tumblr.com/post/114175036701/our-bodies-possessed-by-light-by-mellodear) (again, thanks Dana)

* * *

_  
Everybody loves a winner, so nobody loved me._

**_Maybe This Time, Liza Minelli_ **

* * *

 

 

## LIGHT

The strangest thing about Light Yagami’s flat in London is that he has absolutely nothing against it but hates it all the same. It is spacious and bright; smart and professional. It is efficient and almost comfortable. There are white, silk curtains and immense windows.

Yet, he despises it. He doesn’t try to understand why. There is such thing as hate at first sight, he reminds himself, people who immediately disgust you. That isn’t just him, it’s a common human feeling – people are simply groomed to ignore it, blame their immediate hatred on their prejudices.

It happens all the time with humans, so why not his flat?

The only place he feels truly at ease is the bathroom. If the world is a stage, the bathroom is the dressing room. He can breathe in there. He can rehearse before the performance. He can fail. It doesn’t matter. The audience is waiting, out there, not so far away and they can’t see him. They can crane their neck, infiltrate the wings, flock to his room – all they will face is a locked door and they can knock, they can bang and scratch it, it won’t change a thing. It remains inexorably sealed until Light decides it is time to appear. And so he stands still before them, his body covered with the appropriate disguise, his words never betraying his thoughts. All of this is part of the costume. All of this is for the audience to appreciate, all of this has been carefully crafted to influence them - his personal preferences are not part of the picture. Displaying them would be careless; it would make him as potentially tractable as his audience.

He feels most at ease before the show begins. Or perhaps he just feels alive, because his hands are shaking and he feels his heartbeat. It’s a terrible, dreadful sentiment that creeps up on him – the fear of failing. But it’s better than not feeling at all.

As soon as he puts on the costume, he only feels what he’s allowed to. He only shows what he’s expected to. He could show and feel genuinely, and he would, gladly, if he could stop feeling guilty about it.

Perhaps he has been hiding for too long; the truth is blinding and he already has to put up with the spotlights.

He is leaned towards the mirror, his hands laying on the sink when a dreaded melody brings him to reality. His ringtone is atrocious, but he can’t be bothered to find another one. Why does he pay attention to such vulgar details?  He gives a look of exasperation in thin air and answers.

Light smiles in relief when he hears the distinctive notes of Sayu's voice.

 “You should call more often. Why don’t you call more often?” she says right after he greets her.

“You know why.”

Silence takes over and Light can picture Sayu's sorrowful expression. He would comfort her, but there is nothing he could say that would please her. He waits until she thinks of a suitable answer.

“He’d love to hear your voice," she finally tells him.

Light sighs. “I don’t… doubt that.”

He turns his back to the mirror.

 “Then call," Sayu pleads.

Something in her tone makes his chest ache; perhaps it’s the hopes and expectations she doesn’t even try to hide from him.

Were these always that terrifying?

“I can’t! You know I can’t. What would I say? That I apologise for embarrassing him? Disappointing him?” he exclaims, his voice slightly quivering, “I failed, and I’m trying not to make the same mistake twice”

“ _This_ is not your life, Light," Sayu reminds him, “I get it. You needed a break. But you will come back, right?”

“Sayu, you know it’s not that simple! You perfectly know it! So stop, just stop insisting –“

“Are you alright? You sound erratic,” she cuts in.

Light holds silent for a minute, breathing slowly. He sits on the edge of the bathtub, feeling suddenly tired.

“Yes. Sorry," he whispers, perfect calmness restored in his voice, “I’m exhausted, that’s all.”

“Don’t – don’t push yourself again, Light!”

“It’s not the same. All I have to do is stand in the spotlight and smile. Or not, apparently smiling is not always part of the job.”

She laughs, lifting a weight off his shoulders. “You must love it at least a little bit. You’ve been doing that for half a year now! I can’t wait to see the next pictures!”

“Don’t show them to Dad. Remember what I told you? I’ll tell him when the time is right.”

He can see Sayu frown as she queries: “Does that mean you’ll call him soon?”

She never was one for subtext; she is honest and values sincerity, just like her father.

“Yes”

“Promise?”

He hesitates, but it’s not enough to discourage Sayu Yagami. Her faith is disconcerting – he gives up before the childish smile he can imagine at the other end of the phone.

“Promise.”

Haven’t they learnt their lesson? The last promise he made has been polished, and honoured for some time until the day he was too weak and tired – until the hour he yielded and tried to hide the broken piece in shame. He shouldn’t make promises. You promise when the words are certain, when they’re a reality you see, clear, in your mind; you don’t promise hoping to fool yourself into believing.

He thinks he promises in all the wrong ways; too much, and with little faith.

It’s just a phone call this time. Nothing too difficult. It’s something even a dishonorable son can achieve.

Light stays in the flat until he can’t stand the white walls and the unbearable smell of cleanliness.

 

## L

 

It’s one in the morning when L figures out just how he likes sex. He loves it the same way he enjoys alcohol – only if it’s powerful and unforgettable. He doesn’t understand why people indulge in dullness and insipid interactions. His experience might be slightly limited, why should he care? At least, he remembers each time with vivid clarity; each feeling, every touch, and the faintest sensation comes back to him in the strangest moments.

Every look he shots at Yagami comes with a shiver and memories of moments they haven’t shared yet.

It’s one in the morning and he wants to sleep.

He was fifteen when Mr Wammy sat him down to talk about his insomnia for the first time. Despite their joined efforts, L never quite escaped it. He has made peace with it. Yagami is ruining everything by his mere existence. L doesn't resent him for that. He remembers the intensity in his eyes as his gaze met the photographs on the studio’s wall. L doesn’t resent Light for dwelling inside his mind – why would he? He’s found a muse. It’s well worth a few hours of sleep.

Naomi and Beyond surely do resent Yagami, though. Not consciously, as Naomi probably already brushed that off and Beyond has no idea L has a muse or they wouldn’t be enjoying a cup of tea in the calmness of his apartment.

Still, they must resent whatever occupies L’s mind.

“Are you listening?”

Naomi’s voice drags him back to the present. He very reluctantly accepts it, these days. It’s not like him at all, to avoid realness, however dull or harsh it might be. Naomi senses it, Beyond dreads it – something inhabits L’s mind, and it’s something dark, lingering, otherwise it couldn’t pry L away from reality.

It’s not one in the morning anymore.

It’s one in the afternoon, and the light is blinding – merciless.

Even those he would love to call his friends are background now. The audience, while Yagami stands in the spotlight L would gladly operate for him.

“Long story short, my flat burnt down to the ground,” Beyond says in a sing-song voice that doesn’t mask his bitterness.

L remembers what they were talking about before his mind wandered towards Light Yagami.

Beyond’s weekly visits are events L could do without, but he always brings a bottle of Cognac, making it almost criminal not to let him in. He knows L too well. That time, he came with Naomi too.

Beyond possesses several rare qualities L appreciates. For one, he is one of the rare intellectuals who quote Kierkegaard appropriately.

“And it was accidental, they say. Can you believe that?”

L can believe it. He can believe anything, really, as long as his mind doesn’t reject the possibility completely. It happens often, but rarely with Beyond. He doesn’t know how to lie; he imitates the honest man, tries to mimic sincerity – that’s now how you lie. Not to someone as perceptive as L.

Then again, with Beyond you can never be sure. He’s probably aware that L can see through his lies. He wants him to.

“Why, yes. Surely you don’t think you can live in a flat without furniture, or any bathroom nor _walls_ for that matter.”

“I don’t need much to be content," Beyond answers pensively.

L studies him from afar, his expression slightly absent. 

“Jam. And books”, Naomi says, leaning on the front of L's desk.

“You can be my jam supplier. And I know most of my books by heart. Eidetic memory” He smiles. That’s one thing he has over L.

He turns to L. “You got me with the bathroom thing though. I have to shower. And I need a place to store my make-up. Not _my_ make-up, I don’t that do anymore. The one I use on my clients.”

Beyond claims he is the only philosophy PhD student who’s also a make-up artist in his spare time. It might be true.

“Well, you stay at my place until you find something," Naomi offers.

L lifts an eyebrow. He always pictured Naomi as the paranoid type. Beyond has some marvelous qualities but he is not the ideal roommate.

She must know what she’s doing, she knew Beyond at his worst. She figured him out, somehow, when L couldn’t be bothered to. Still, she wants this solved riddle by her side. That’s admirable, to see someone's entire picture – dark shades and places where the brush hesitated and still be enthralled by it.

“Do you have the slightest idea where to look?” Naomi asks Beyond, her voice genuinely worried.

“Yes, because as much as I trust your abilities, it’s hard to work on a PhD without a single book. Or computer. Or _pen_ ," L says with a touch of sarcasm.

Beyond hesitates, a grave expression on his face, as if he were a diplomat considering reddition. It doesn’t alarm L – philosophers are very dramatic. It’s their personal style.

“There wouldn’t be any flat available in your building?" Beyond says at once. He delivers the words quickly, betraying his childlike fear of rejection.

L stares at him. “You haven’t set fire to your apartment so you have an excuse to live with me, I dare hope.”

Beyond chuckles. “Always the paranoia,” he shakes in head so as to demonstrate how utterly absurd he finds L’s insinuation. “No. I _would_ totally do that. But you’re too intelligent, you’d figure it out and all my efforts would go to waste. Not to mention I draw the line at burning books. Even for you, _Lawli_ , I wouldn’t do that.”

L doesn’t even flinch at the nickname he loathes so passionately. He simply nods, his mind already elsewhere.

It’s been weeks since he disturbed Yagami in the midst of the perfectly rehearsed performance that is his professional life.

How can he still feel his hand around his wrist?

He hopes he never find the answer and yet…

His hand grasps his phone in a heartbeat. _To win, you have to attack_ , he thinks as he cancels an appointment.

If L. Lawliet has to be obsessed with a neurotic 20 year old model, it’s going to be on his own terms.

 

## LIGHT

The light is blinding today. Light finds himself blinking to escape it, but he can’t, he has to face it once more, until they’re finished with him. He ignores his headache.

“Light”, the voice behind the camera calls, “Look up. Show us your face.”

Light obeys, knowing they need him more than he needs them anyway. This photoshoot is not yet art, it’s a deck of cards and he is the reason it hasn’t tumbled down yet. He glances about, can barely distinguish the silhouettes from one another. They’re all the same, insects attracted to the light.

 “Don’t space out. Look at me. Like that, perfect.”

Photographers give orders all day long. No wonder why most of them are control freaks. That sort of power is terribly overrated. Light values subtlety; always soft power over hard power. Orders and fear only get you so far, until you hit a wall – your adversary’s pride, because surprisingly enough, most humans have self-respect.

That’s what Light learnt about modeling: people think it’s about the body, but it’s not, not when it’s done correctly. He is not the one longing for the light. He walks, leaving a trail of longing looks behind him; he doesn’t see them, he senses them. And he won’t turn around. Are they really the powerful ones?

He reflects a light that is stronger than anything. He holds the camera’s gaze, as he would defy an adversary, but the photographer doesn’t understand.

That’s a shame. _He_ would have taken advantage of that – made the opposition memorable. Light feels an inexplicable frustration seizing him.

It’s not modeling that leaves him unfulfilled; it’s them, the photographers. They’re supposed to be artists, but they’re not. All they do is lust after their models and sip wine at gallery openings. They have no gift, no subtlety and barely any emotion.

Light has a mind too; thoughts, and dreams, and regrets, but they’re not having any of that. All they want is a body.

That’s why L is a genius. He respects the mind power over the body and actually acts on it, in a world where appearances have always reigned.

The photoshoot draws to a close. Wedy advances on him as soon as they let her.

“Lawliet isn’t here?”

Light is taken back by the sudden mention of a name that never seems to leave his mind lately.

“Why would he be here?”

“The photographer on this shoot asked him to come, give him advice," Wedy explains, “But he cancelled yesterday. I hoped he’d change his mind.”

“I didn’t know," Light says, “But he doesn’t strike me as someone who changes his mind easily anyway”

“What’s up with you two?” Wedy snaps. “Why did you push him away?”

“I have no idea," Light answers without thinking.

We think of obsession as heavy, overpowering. It may be true, most of the time. But L, L reigns over his mind with disconcerting subtlety. L resembles a strange bird with his sharp features; a bird of prey, perhaps. One that chased all the other thoughts in Light’s head and made this unknown territory his in the most ingenious way. Quietly, gracefully, until Light realizes he looks for L in every person he meets.

Light has to reach out to him. _I’m not yielding_ , Light thinks, _I’m surviving_. It’s the ones you can’t control who will eat you up. He is going to show him they’re on the same level of the food chain.

“Do you know where I can find him today?” he asks Wedy, keeping his voice level.

She gives a satisfied smile. “Thank God you’re changeable, Yagami. I couldn’t stand watching you miss that opportunity."

 

 

## L

L needs the music to stop thinking, to tame his obsessions and soothe his demons. Singing has never been a passion. Those who can read behind the notes might discover L is unleashing all the intense, overwhelming emotions his mind contains most of the time. The truth is, few people can see through the haze of a beautiful melody. Music is not a hiding place – singing feels dangerous, revealing. Photography is his favourite hiding place; nobody sees him behind the perfectly lit up portraits he displays.

“ _What if the lights go out and maybe, I just hate to be all alone_ ," L sings – he crosses Mihael’s look amidst the audience. It’s the only gaze that has been consistently fixed on him, when most of them flicker from the singer, to their friends sat beside them, sometimes to their half-empty glass.

As the last notes drop, as he says the word moon one last time, he wonders if Light is going to take that away from him too. Perhaps Light is not the one to blame. L has let himself be inhabited by him; it was a choice. He doesn’t linger on the stage; the sound of applause draws longer as he strides back to his seat.

Hanging around at _the_ _Jaberwock_ is an excuse as good as any to drink too much. He is not a social creature but it’s just too depressing to do that on his own.

“You were fantastic," Mihael compliments him with a faint smile. He turns to his roommate, “Am I right, Mail?”

L is still not quite sure what to make of that Mail, but he’s relieved that Mihael is getting closer to someone his own age. Nate could count, L supposes, if Mihael admitted he liked him.

Glancing around, L recognizes every face and silhouette. He knows everyone here and he has photographed half of them. _The Jaberwock_ is the unofficial den of the Wammy’s Art Institute students. Graduates often find it difficult to forget this place. L never tried to.

“Where are Naomi and Beyond?”

Mihael shrugs. “Smoking outside, I guess.”

“Well, I guess I’ll order another drink," L said, glancing at the counter nearby.

One second later, he is staring idly at the impressive collection of liqueurs lined up behind the barmaid, sensing a familiar weariness coursing through his veins. He knows all too well replacing it with poison – alcohol or adrenaline, would be a careless mistake.

He’s not longing for those anymore. He craves something much more powerful, something blinding.

He sips some of his whiskey, wondering if he should have come to that photoshoot after all.

And then -

 “I heard you sing.”

That melodious voice, L would recognize it in an ocean of thousands. He turns on his heels to face Light Yagami.

“It’s nice meeting you again, Mr Lawliet," he says with a formal bow.

L can’t help but shoot him an amused smile. “You, here? You should have told me. I would have dressed better.”

Light takes a seat beside him, orders a cocktail that is probably as strong as apple juice and says:

“ _Goodnight Moon_ , huh.”

There is a strange hesitation in his tone. It’s difficult to tell whether or not it’s real. L doesn’t try to figure it out. He loses himself in Yagami. That’s what makes every single of their conversation exhausting, yet so terribly exciting. He’s never craved for anything more intensely and he’s an ex-drug addict.

“It’s an obsession," Light states, knowing he’s right. “Have you always loved the moon?”

“Yes," L lies. “Is that enough for you to trust me?”

Light stares at him, holding silence, hiding behind his usual indecipherable expression. It’s a view L thinks he can never get tired of. Yet, he feels the urge to grab Yagami by the shoulders and shake an answer out of him.

When it finally comes, L instinctively raises his glass so as to hide behind the rim. It’s a privilege, to be talented enough to embarrass L. Lawliet.

“The way you sang... You’re offering something personal in the hope it will please others. You might not realise it, but you’ve confided more with that one song than you believe.”

Light looks at him in expectation. All L can do is stare at him, thinking of how soft and warm his skin must feel. He needs to sort himself out. Quickly.

“Have you ever taken singing lessons?” Light’s voice is nearly a whisper. It’s a sly trick to mask his swelling anxiety, L guesses.

He puts his glass down.

“I did. The Wammy Institute promotes all arts – photography wasn’t my first love. You know perhaps how first loves can be deceiving.”

L hoped to catch an emotion in Light’s eyes but he doesn’t even avert his gaze.

“It was too revealing. Almost too intimate," L adds after a moment of silent contemplation of Light Yagami’s features.

“Your photographs aren’t?”

“It’s harder to see the photographer behind his portraits than to distinguish the singer in the melody. The model is blocking your view. It’s them I try to reveal.”

“You’re not too egocentric for an artist," Light says. He crosses his legs and sips some of his cocktail.

“I try not to be.”

“That, or you’re paranoid," Light shots at him.

L remembers seeing panic in Light’s eyes the first time they met. And for what exactly? For fear of being understood?

“Like you’re one to talk.”

Light gets the allusion. L expects Light to offer an apology, an explanation for his strange behaviour. He would enjoy watching Yagami elegantly talking his way out of their feud.

“Touché," he simply answers, “I don’t blame you for invading my personal life, though. We should put all of that behind us.”

Oh, so it’s a compromise, L thinks with a hint of disappointment.

“I don’t _blame_ you. I wonder what made you so guarded, that’s all.”

“Nothing in particular. I’ve always been like this.”

“I couldn’t find anything about you. Except for the stories the newspaper told," L admits. “You just disappeared one day. And trust me, I know how to do my research. Someone has been _very_ careful.”

“So you don’t just fancy yourself a detective; you are a detective," Light teases, “You have a lot of hidden talents.”

L doesn’t flinch, knowing Light will continue talking only if he doesn’t retort anything.

“Yes, I have been careful. I am one of the few people who knows how to disappear from the internet," Light explains. “I can assure you, you’ll not find the answer to your pressing questions in there.”

“So it seems," L mutters. “Are you going to work for me, then?”

“ _With_ you. Yes." Light answers him, his voice sounding like an echo of his own.

“Is it because I can sing?”

“It’s because you have a beautiful voice.”

L leans back on his stool. “Really?”

“I read through it. I liked what I saw.”

Their eyes remain locked for a few mingled breaths.

“I still need to know more about you," L says, sounding calm when his chest feels like a nest of serpents. “Answer my questions and I’ll answer yours. You don’t need to justify your answer.”

Light’s mouth quirks up into an enigmatic smile – L takes it as a yes.

“Last pet?” L questions.

“I couldn’t take care of another being. Last fight?”

“Won, by me,” Light smiles at that. “Last time you had sex?” L goes on.

“Not worth remembering. Last kiss?”

It started as a game but it’s turning to a duet. L feels himself reaching a crescendo as he answers:

“Half-remembered. Last regret?”

“Soon to be fixed…” Light meets L’s penetrating gaze. “What?”

“You _regretted_ it?”

Light feels the heat climbing up to his face. “You’re cheating. What’s the point of having rules…?”

“I think of rules as guidelines. You should, too," L smirks. “You regretted it? Leaving the studio?”

“Yes. You doubted that? Surely, you knew”

“I thought it would take you more time to acknowledge it. That, and I was certain you’d never admit it.”

They stay silent for a moment, until Light leans forward on his stool, closing the space between them. “Last obsession," he says, a glint of malice in his eyes.

Once again, L feels his finger itching for a camera.

“ _You_. What’s the point of asking questions when you perfectly know the answer?” L drawls, his expression turning sullen.

Light brings a swift finger up, almost touching L’s lips so as to shush him. “This game has rules. Respect them, please.”

Light removes his finger and L realises he has missed his cue; he is supposed to play the next note in their duet. “Last promise?”

“ _I’ll make you proud_ ," Light lets out coldly.  

And just like that, the music disappear in thin air – Light’s eyes are misting up, it’s almost imperceptible, but L sees it and feels a wave of inexplicable guilt flashing in his chest.

L’s hand instinctively moves to Light’s arm. It occurs to L it is the very first time he gets to touch him like this. He feels Light stiffening under his fingers, his body imperceptibly moving closer to him, drawn by some irresistible, inexorable pull.

“Sorry to interrupt," someone grits out behind them. They crane their necks in unison.

“Who might you be?” Yagami has the nerve to ask. He has already regained his composure. Some would be impressed, but it only makes L sad.

Mihael casts a quick glance at Light. “I’m a friend."

He turns to L again, disregarding the expression of sheer disdain on Light’s face.

“Are you coming? I convinced Naomi to sing a duet with Beyond, trust me, you don’t want to miss that.”

L nods pensively.

Beyond harbors a strange apprehension towards music. If Mihael knew why, he would probably refrain his enthusiasm. The truth is, L, Naomi and Beyond form a trio united with the memory of a dead girl they once loved. Beyond used to call her _the A to his B_ , she was his best friend in the world, an intellectual match, and a violinist. Music possessed her, as some are obsessed with a person, or an idea. She could spend hours explaining how silences between notes are just as melodious as the music itself.

She passed away and instruments became pieces of dead wood to Beyond – meaningless, as she was the only one who could make them speak.

The memory of Anna unsettles L. It always comes with an engulfing wave of sorrow.

“Are you alright…?” Yagami asks, laying a perfectly manicured hand on his shoulder.

L’s gaze falls on Light. “Yes. I’d better go now, but do call me.”

“I will”

“Promise? You’re quite changeable," L teases but his voice certainly lacks venom.

Light answers, holding L’s gaze unflinchingly. “Promise”

It takes only a second of inattention for Mihael to slide his hand in the pockets of the Burberry coat Light abandoned on the counter behind him.

He suppresses a shiver when he finds the photographs and a satisfied smile when his fingers meet a small bottle full of pills. He leaves the objects where they belong. He doesn’t need them – he just needed to know he was right about Yagami.

He is an obsessive narcissist with a pathological fear of failure. And he’d feel sorry for him and whatever happened that made him leave Japan for England if he didn’t care about L.

All Mihael sees is a bad influence for a man he admires and loves and wishes he could protect. He grabs L’s arm and pries him away from Light Yagami while it’s still time, green eyes beckoning his mentor not to turn and watch his Adderall-addicted muse one last time.

But L does turn his head to meet Light’s gaze. As L’s lips curl up into a faint, unbearably sweet smile, Mihael feels his anger taking shape of something ravaging, something he hates but always loses against – jealousy.

*

Beyond is enjoying a cigarette again when L joins him outside. He’s alone, this time. He sure seems grimmer when Naomi is not around.

“That duet with Naomi was outstanding," L compliments him.

A moment of silence, then:

"I hear they have plenty of rooms in the Angels residences."

"Angels? Isn’t that a model agency? They book the rooms for their models.”

"I can arrange that," L drawls. “You're a Wammy’s Boy. It comes with some privileges."

Beyond fixes his gaze on him, flicks the ash off his cigarette. "What's the catch, Lawliet? You’re suggesting I become a model? Have you seen me? You expect me to be your muse?"

"I am helping a ... friend," L answers, his expression deadpan. “That’s all”

“You want me to keep an eye on someone” Beyond guesses, just as L thought he would, “I can do that, if the place is worth it. And don’t forget –“

L’s head snaps in Beyond’s direction. “I owe you. I know.” He lays a hand on his shoulder, “Thank you”

He should feel bad – Light has closed the distance between them, he gave him some genuine smile, he played his game.

He shouldn’t invade his privacy. Still, he cannot just accept a _compromise_. There isn’t anything in the universe L can’t understand; there isn’t one riddle he cannot solve - not those he’s interested in at least. And Light won’t let him in any time soon, he won’t open that door for him.

L will steal the key from Light, and perhaps that’s _exactly_ what he wants. It’s not something L tells himself to sleep at night (Light won’t let him sleep normally either way). He saw it, he saw... was it a cry for help? Not really. It was more of a demand – “ _You’ve seen the facade? Now rip it off me_.”

And that’s what he intends to do. But he has to _attack_ first.

L  goes back inside the pub, glances around. Light’s elegant silhouette is nowhere to be seen. He can’t help but feel he has abandoned him. Then, he remembers he just asked a friend to spy on him and feels he deserves it, in a way.

It’s Mihael voice that pulls him out of his thoughts.  

“I have something to tell you about him.”

 “Him? Light Yagami, you mean?”

Even the way he says his name is nauseating. Mihael nods imperceptibly, already knowing he will regret resorting to such petty means.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pssst, Adderall is not a drug persay but it can be just as dangerous. Sadly, it's very common among anxious college students .


	4. Exhibition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the smu... don't mind me, I haven't said anything. Things should get pretty interesting now. As always, I struggle to express how flattered and touched I am by all your comments. Thank you so much. It means a lot.  
> I changed the formatting a bit to suit the multiple POVs better.

_Love is a striking example of how little reality means to us._

**_Marcel Proust_ **

* * *

 

## LIGHT

The thought has crept in his mind many times since it hit him the first time, but never quite as bluntly as the night he accepted to work for L. Lawliet.

Never fall in love.

 _Do yourself a favour_ , is what he thinks immediately after this. He walks back home and none of the London lights seem comforting enough. The night, especially, reminds him he’s a stranger in this city. He finds shelter in his mind, slithering through the endless crowds. Is London ever quiet?

Light can’t prevent his mind from wandering in unwanted directions. He glances at his pocket and nervously pulls his _ipod_ out of it. He skips _Goodnight Moon_.

Then he tries to figure him out, L. Lawliet, brilliant photographer and full-time unfathomable prick. In a way, L is the first beautiful thing Light saw in London – it was a photoshoot by him in some irrelevant fashion magazine, actually. But the artist bleeds on his work and his creations are always truer than his words.  Light began to leaf through the magazines L worked for every week. Unbeknownst to him, he was being infected by his art. Light started to feel nauseous. He thought it was the spotlights he missed. He signed with the Angels Model Agency the next week. In truth, Light craved for the gaps in L’s portraits, how he cautiously kept parts of his models hidden in the shadows.

Light decided to meet him to be sure. Turns out L is conscious he’s insanely talented. It should make him insufferable…But he looks terribly sickly and sings like the ghost of someone who died too young. Makes up for the sarcasm.

He regretted leaving the studio with the walls covered in haunting portraits. He regretted it because he wanted to be on that wall, someday.

Here’s the horrifying truth: Light _could_ fall in love. He doesn’t deny it; seeing passion as an obstacle to avoid rather than an impossibility. There are over 300 songs on his ipod and damn, Goodnight Moon is the one that came first. It’ a sign that he is standing at a crossroad. There is a path, however, he can’t afford to follow.

“You can’t just choose not to fall in love! You’re not some comic book villain!” the voice of his sister reprimands him in the back of his mind. He manages to make up her inimitable nonchalance. Sayu can make a joke out of anything. Nothing is too serious for her, and there isn’t a name she’s afraid to pronounce. As a little girl, she named the monsters hiding under her bed, exorcising them that way.

But love can’t be exorcised – it has too many names and all of them are true. There is no making sense of it, no fixed definition or comprehensive list of symptoms. It’s a terrifying concept, really. And people are unfair to love, Light thinks, because in truth, love is not _lying_ to anyone. It truly holds thousands of names, as many as the number of people that were loved, even once. Yet, people seldom understand that and argue about love the way they complain about politics. _“It hasn’t lived up to my expectations!”_ They shouldn’t have expected anything in the first place.

Light tries to think of a relevant comparison. Ironically, the only one he can bring to mind is the light itself. The light is never cruel to anyone – if your face is distorted on a picture, it’s the photographer that’s responsible. He should have tamed the light so as to wake the best part of you. To Light, love should be treated the same way. It should be feared and respected – if only for the destructive force it can be, but it shouldn’t ever be blamed for the flaws in human nature.

“You’re overthinking again, Light,” Sayu’s imaginary voice warns him. This time, she sounds worried.

Someone in the underground elbows him and he regrets Tokyo. It was just as crowded but everything seemed simple and perfectly sorted out.

He barely rests, that night. He has a dissertation to write and he learns better in the dark.

Light used to long for the nights, not at all minding the darkness. He would look up from his schoolwork and let his eyes find a never-ending obscurity beyond the window. He found it strangely comforting; perhaps because he witnessed nightfall from a safe place. Darkness never makes promises. It doesn’t need to; no matter how gloomy the day has been, the night will always fall in the end. It’s always there.

Now the nights smell of lavender. It’s supposed to help him sleep. The perfume lingers in his mouth, sips through his skin and clasp his throat like a long, sharp hempen rope.

It stops at 3am, when L texts him his personal address. Light lets out a sigh of relief. His flat at the Angels residence is bright, and clean, and empty. It tells too much about him.

The day comes, sky murky like in L’s photographs; daylight has to fight to be noticed, not to end up smothered by the heavy clouds flocking up above London.

L lives in the kind of apartment Light would judge someone on. It’s very clean but space is rare and often occupied with candy bags. There is no coat rack either.

“We could have met elsewhere," Light is almost apologising for what he considers an invasion of L’s personal space. He needs L to believe he is actually sorry for this.

He’s not. It’s L, after all, who called him. He should take responsibility for it. Light has the right to relish the honour of traipsing around the photographer’s flat, trying to find pieces of him in the books abandoned on the couch, in the sweets scattered over the dinner table. L. Lawliet is an intelligent man; surely he knows that a home is never a neutral territory.

“I know we could have met elsewhere,” L says, flopping down into his armchair, “I’m sure you would rather be in a fancy cocktail bar, but I prefer to have you in my living room.”

Light narrows his eyes.

“I don’t mind being here. I thought you would.”

L lets out a clear, bright laugh that gives Light pause. He never imagined L laugh before. He never thought that pointy canines could be attractive either. “I’m not worried. There is nothing you can learn about me here that I want to hide,” L says assertively. “So, go ahead, inspect everything and form your opinion on me.”

The photographer folds forward to grab a piece of liquorice on the coffee table.  He claimed in an interview that he had no time for sports, but he’s very lithe. Perhaps it’s natural.

“But I guarantee you,” L goes on, sinking back into the armchair. “Whatever conclusion you draw from my terrible taste in interior decoration, you’ll have to amend it soon enough. I am not what I seem to be.”

Light lifts a shoulder. “Maybe.”

He keeps on pacing, his eyes flickering from the mismatched furniture to a dusty bookshelf. Light recognizes the spines of more than a few books. He suppresses a shiver.

“You have more handbooks on criminal law than on photography,” Light comments, keeping his voice level.

“A friend gave them to me,” L explains, unfazed by Light’s passive-aggressiveness. “She said I should at least know the basics if I want to become a private detective someday. And I don’t need any textbook telling me how I should set the aperture on my camera or that Nikons are better than Canons. It’s all rubbish if you ask me. I could take a decent picture with my phone right now and the morons writing these so-called photography tips would congratulate me on my clever use of shutter speed settings when my Nokia obviously has no idea what shutter speed even is. You have no idea either, but it’s not important to you.” He sighs. “Models are lucky.”

“You're right. Nobody ever tell us what to do,” Light whips back.

L lowers his eyes, looking slightly uneasy. A rush of pride chases away Light’s swelling anxiety.

“Anyway, we both idealise detective work, I’m afraid. I was only looking for a way to satisfy my morbid curiosity. You were just interested in the spotlight. Look at us now, the photographer and the model. I think it makes a lot of sense.”

It bothers Light that he can’t object. Except for one thing - “I am not interested in just _any_ spotlight.”

“Good thing you’re working for…sorry. _With_ me, then.”

L smirks, crosses his legs and stuffs another piece of liquorice in his mouth. It’s only then, because he has to avert looking directly at L while he sucks on his candy, that Light notices he is wearing a turtleneck in high April. Light resents him for being so bizarrely charismatic.

He senses L’s hands gripping his waist already. It’s getting dangerous.

“There has been a misunderstanding,” Light counters without thinking much. “I promised I would work for you eventually, but I’m collaborating with someone else right now. Eraldo Coil, you know him? Maybe not. You strike me as the kind of man who doesn’t bother to remember the name of his competitors.” Light spits the words, arms folded.

L shakes his head. “It’s absurd.”

Light suppresses a smile. L opens his mouth, outraged, his eyes now ablaze with indignation. The photographer wears the same scowl as the first time his muse escaped him. Light expects L won’t let that happen again; L must understand that he is not pushing him away. But Light wants company – he is not looking for a master, or a teacher. He has to pretend he’s detached, that he doesn’t dream of leaving red marks over his collarbone or else, L, with his insatiable hunger, will devour him.

Light might have left Japan as a catastrophe in many regards, it doesn’t mean he should let L hold him like a ragdoll in the palm of his hand.

“I have an engagement," Light insists.

“How long?” L asks. His voice has turned colder. It’s been a few minutes since he last bent over the table to grab a candy.

Light relishes the moment. “Three months.”

“Three months,” L echoes, abashed.

Light turns his back to stare at his reflection in a mirror. “Yes.”

He smiles.

L jumps on his feet, strides to him. He stands between Light and the mirror. “You have to break this engagement.”

“No. My reputation is at stake. Surely, you can wait,” Light answers. He hovers around L, all calculated elegance.

L casts an insistent look at him.

“You admire me, don’t you?” he snaps. “Do you admire Coil?”

“I don’t” Light admits. He never admired a photographer, except L.

“Then I demand you cancel the appointment. You can do that. I have no competitor, Yagami. It’s your chance to work with the best of them all.”

“If it doesn’t work with you, I have nothing left,” Light counters.

“I’ll make this work,” L locks his eyes on him, pauses. Then, “I know about the Adderall.” Light flinches but stays silent. “I don’t care. I understand. Most photographers wouldn’t, because Adderall can cause restlessness and frankly, they wouldn’t see any purpose in hiring a model who may cease to obey and fail to stand still for their, oh so sacred, lens.”

“You have faith in our partnership.” Light says in a breath. “I would love to share that sentiment. But I need proof.”

“Alright.” L turns his back to him, prowls to his desk and grabs his camera. 

It takes Light by surprise.  “Now?” He is reeling. It happens way too often, in L’s presence. “But there’s barely any sunlight.”

 “You have to reveal the light, not wait until it shows up. Just stand by the window.”

Light obliges. L’s gaze lingers on him. Even as he feels his heart rate pick up, he maintains the appearance of detachment. He stands still, a statue. L observes him in silence, and his eyes won’t penetrate his skin; they merely skim the surface. L doesn’t want to understand everything, it seems. He must relish the mystery Light offers. It’s comforting, it’s exhilarating, like being showered in silent praises.

It ends too soon.

 “It will be splendid,” L promises as soon as he lowers the camera. “You’ll want to steal it too.”

Light has to clear his throat. “I never doubted –“

“You’ll have your proof in time. I need to work now.”

Light doesn’t register L’s demand immediately. He stares for a flicker of time at the photographer. His gaze lingers a second too long. L’s eyes, as piercing as a dagger, narrow.

“ _I have work_ , Yagami, is your cue to leave.”

“Oh” Light murmurs. “Of course, I have work too.” It feels true when Light says it, even if he has no idea where he’s supposed to be heading to after that.

“I’ll see you very soon. Wait for my call.”

L’s last words fly unheard above Light. His heart is still hammering in his chest as he slides into the elevator. It’s empty. He takes a deep, long breath. Only one picture, and L made a mess of him. He shouldn’t be eager to see how their story unfolds.

## NATE

There is nothing personal that prevents Nate from admiring L. Lawliet. Everyone admires a natural genius. As geniuses go, L isn’t even that rude. He always treats Nate with respect, when it may be socially acceptable for a gifted artist to snub a strange, frail, insignificant robotics student.

Nate has already formed a negative opinion on L, though. His reasons might be petty. He knows he can be strangely fixated on details. Perhaps he simply cannot admire the man Mihael seems to be magically, irremediably drawn to. Nate only attends L’s exhibition because Mihael invited him – reluctantly, he guessed by the irritated tone of voice he employed, but still. He ought to thank Mail later. He always tries to speak in favour of Nate.

“That one there is especially beautiful. It could be the cover of a book,” Mihael says, pointing at a photograph Nate deems particularly dull – then again, he doesn’t care for portraits.

“ _Your_ book, then. I wouldn’t sell my work to any other writer” L answers, placing a protective hand on Mihael’s shoulder. The gesture draws a smile from Mihael who’s used to be only one L touches out of pure affection. L does touch other people from time to time, but according to Mihael, it means nothing at all.

Upon L’s silent command, they retreat to a quieter part of the gallery.

“Yagami couldn’t come?” Mihael queries. He doesn’t notice the scowl Nate is wearing now. What does he expect, by mentioning Yagami to L? It’s the sort of low-key masochism Nate can’t comprehend. It’s brave, in a terrifying way. Back at the orphanage, Mihael was the only kid who insisted on knowing the truth about his parents. They abandoned him – he never shied away from that fact. He’d inflict the truth upon himself, heart sinking, hands trembling, and voice quivering. He would whisper it in his sleep until it felt real.

“I haven’t invited him. It wouldn’t interest him, he’s not in any of the pictures,” L drawls. It’s impossible for Nate to tell if he is jesting or not.

“You told he was some kind of national prodigy, right? Then, why do you think he left Japan? Don’t you worry about that?” Mihael queries vehemently.

L nods, his expression absent.

“I’m not saying he’s some kind of criminal, but he might be hiding – “

L shushes Mihael with a supple gesture of the hand.

“Two seconds,” he says. “That bastard Eraldo Coil is here.”

It takes five seconds for Mihael to accept L ran off in the midst of his sentence. He lowers his gaze, swallows. Nate wishes he was better at comforting people. It frustrates him that Mail always knows exactly what to say. It doesn’t make sense. Mail met Mihael two years ago. Nate grew up in the same depressing orphanage, experienced the same restless nights and the fears shared by all orphans.

Nate curses his inability to think fast. He stares at L, who’s debating with Coil near the buffet. Because of his poor eyesight, Nate can’t distinguish the expression on their faces. Nate’s eyebrows are fiercely knit, betraying his swelling annoyance.

Mihael is mumbling to himself now. “Why would he date a model? Next thing you know he’s dying his hair and discards all his turtlenecks.”

“Models don’t wear turtlenecks?” Nate asks. Some company in his ranting is the only thing he can offer Mihael.

“They’re out of fashion. And the Adderall thing… He can’t take that risk. You know what L told me when I warned him?”

Nate shakes his head.

“I’m not a child, Mihael. It was petty and very unlike you to expose Light Yagami like that. I’m disappointed. Don’t go all Naomi on me, I’m not Beyond, for fuck’s sake. I don’t need people to take care of me. Don’t be invasive.”

Mihael’s rendition of L’s low, flat, lilt of voice is nearly perfect – although a bit too husky perhaps. Nate looks up to fix his gaze on Mihael. He seems defeated.

Mihael remains silent for a moment, lost in thoughts. Then, “If I’m not one of King L’s favourites anymore, I think I may as well go home and write something, for a change.”

Nate considers storming out as well but he’s already lost sight of Mihael. Feeling abandoned, Nate meanders in the gallery and works up the courage to wriggle out of the crowd flocked at the entrance. He curses L inwardly for putting him through such torture. He finally catches sight of Mihael. He’s leant against a wall in the hall, arms folded, body-language all but defiant. Yet, even now, Mihael can’t bring himself to walk out one of L’s exhibitions. He merely retreated in a quiet corner of the gallery. Nate scuffs in his direction.

He is not the only one.

Nate darts a nasty look at the person who’s striding to Mihael. Of course, Yagami reaches him first – thanks to his long, thin legs.

“You’re Mihael, right? We met the other day.” In spite of the distance, Nate discerns a hint of venom in his soft-spoken voice.

“Can’t say I remember you” Mihael defies him.

“Surely you do. You rummaged through my pockets.”

Mihael blenches at that.

Nate thinks of the only photograph signed L. Lawliet he can bring to his mind. It was a portrait of Mihael. That’s how he knows he has to interrupt them. He has to help Mihael retrieve the cheeky smile that photograph once captured perfectly.

“You must be looking for L,” Nate states, his voice as soft as the sound of a little child tugging at his mother’s sleeve.

There is a moment of heavy silence; Yagami is certainly considering the possibility of ignoring Nate’s input completely. However, some part of him wants to remain polite and Nate inwardly thanks whoever made Yagami so hypocritical.

“As a matter of fact, I am not. I came with the man I’m collaborating with at the moment.”

Then he tilts his head back to Mihael, his lips already parting to say something venomous.

“Oh?” Nate says. “Could it be the man L is arguing with over there, by the buffet?”

It’s a shot in the dark, because Nate can’t be certain they’re still there. Apparently, he is in luck.

A vivid emotion runs through Yagami’s eyes. Mihael’s lips curl up in a smile, and Nate knows he was right to interfere.

Yagami jerks his scarf back over his shoulder and darts to L. “You were not supposed to threaten him!” is the only sentence that’s loud enough for them to hear.

Nate doesn’t pay attention either way. “Thank you”, Mihael says and his voice, however thin and modest, overlaps Yagami’s distant whinge. 

 

## L

Back at the Wammy’s Institute, Coil praised himself on his chiseled jaw and masculine chin. It worked like a charm on the ladies, he often boasted. L would roll his eyes and sigh, and smirk at Beyond and Anna’s nasty impressions of him. Coil’s photographs are beautiful, precise and virtually devoid of substance. Art is tragic. It’s like playing a game which rules will most often get you killed. You can’t afford to ignore them. You have to learn how to bend them, transform to your liking. Then again Coil sleeps with most of his models; a leering eye usually oozes from the photograph. It makes the final work terribly vulgar – not at all erotic.

L glances at Coil’s photographs of Yagami. A shiver travels down his spine and he feels slightly nauseous. Yagami looks majestic and vulnerable, like a cathedral about to be pillaged. It is intentional, and L burns at the idea of Coil - this perverted, talentless waste of space, getting off while exposing Light’s weaknesses. The other day at the gallery heralded the beginning of a tragic development in Eraldo Coil’s career. The poor bloke has no idea his success will be as short-lived as a summer fling.

It’s easy to crush a career, L thinks, all you have to do is tell the truth. Everyone has secrets, and it’s a photographer’s specialty to collect them. Feeling relieved by his resolution to destroy Coil, L finally allows himself to look at his own photograph of Light.

“Light Yagami,” he murmurs at the picture, “You thought I was threatening Coil so he would leave you to me, but I just needed his photographs.”

He is eyeing the model like he’s some saintly apparition. Of course, the comparison between the two photographs will be enough.

The impeccable symmetry of his body, the softness in his features, those qualities comfort the diligent artist in L. It respects the rules he has been taught. Yet, there is a wickedness in Yagami. His mind, it’s not at all harmonious. He is the only photographer to have sensed that. Through his other eye, the camera, L unveiled that secret – Light’s sorrowful grace and the aggressiveness he hides so well. L would be lying if he claimed Light doesn’t frighten him.

L once spent hours shooting ‘ _L’Ange du Mal’_ from every angle – the pinnacle of Luciferian beauty, if you ask him. He thinks of Light in the same way; a melancholic, fierce creature, full of bright and hypocritical ideals for the world. L’s eyes slide from Light’s torso to the serpentine curve of his waist. It’s not bare like the sculpture, but it’s just as splendid. Only the thin, graceful wings are missing to shelter that entrancing body. He sees a tragedy in Light, not a hero, not a role-model, but an as-if, a possibility, a clever assemblage of facets, stitched together with a courtly smile. L arrogantly believes he can wake up any part of Light as he pleases, just as the romantics found the inspired, misunderstood rebel in Lucifer.

In a heartbeat, he grabs his phone.

_“Come at the studio ASAP. Need to show you something.”_

Do the plain, cold words mask his intentions? Can Light see him now? How excitement sets his eyes ablaze, washing off the usual mask of aloofness?

Moments later, he lets Light into the studio, body gladly giving way to the model once again. Light might be the only person to have come there twice.

Lights stands still in the middle of the room, his posture perfect like a sonnet. L immediately closes the space between them.

“Are you still mad at me?” he asks.

“No. I don’t usually hold grunges.”

“What did Coil tell you after you both left the gallery?”

“He warned me about you. Told me he had to hand you the photographs because you could sink anyone mercilessly and unexpectedly, like (I quote) that damn iceberg that sunk the Titanic.”

L allows himself to smirk at that foolish comparison. He has to write it down somewhere. “Do you give any credit to his words?”

“Not at all. It would be careless to listen to the rumours spread by those who envy you. I will be the only judge of you,” Light retorts. His answer is perfect, exactly what L wanted to hear. Yet, L discerns a strange sorrow in his tone that smear his satisfaction. It must have something to do with what happened in Tokyo.

“I thank you for that,” L says. “You must understand that I needed his shots of you.”

“I know. You want me to compare them to yours.”

The glint in the photographer’s eyes doesn’t mask his intentions. He can hear Light silently agreeing to it. It will happen, inevitably. And it has to be in the studio. Everywhere else would be insipid.

A strange, throbbing silence fills the studio – the sort of eerie calmness you only experience underwater. L can’t bring himself to avert his eyes, lest Light fades away.

Perhaps the intensity of the moment finally has Light scared, because he tilts his head to the nearest wall.

“You’ve taken them down,” he says in an undertone.

L realises he is alluding to the portraits. “I needed to clear everything up. It’s a new beginning.”

“Nothing has started yet. I can’t say I don’t appreciate your interest. I do –“

“You speak too much, Yagami. Observe.”

Light follows his gaze to the photographs aligned on the desk. L’s first photograph of Yagami is intimidatingly beautiful. He knows his craft, of course – he used a wide aperture to restrict the depth of field and directs all looks to Light’s sharp eyes.

That’s not all there is. As technique goes, the picture of Yagami could be better. It isn’t even a studio shot.

“Coil can’t see you. None of them can. You’re too talented a liar.”

“What makes you different?” Light whispers, eyes flickering from Coil’s picture to L’s.

“I don’t have to see past all the layers. You don’t _lie_ to me. In my presence, it’s like you’re barely wearing any make-up. Aren’t you aware of that?”

Light locks his eyes on L, his expression one of mild offense. “I never wear make-up.”

L becomes painfully aware of Light’s charming Japanese accent. He licks his lips, spaces out for a second but quickly regains his composure.

“I do wear make-up sometimes,” L confesses casually. “Don’t feel threatened by your femininity. Although, in that case, the make-up was a metaphor.” Light’s cheeks turn slightly pink at the painful revelation – his English is not yet flawless. “It means…instinctively, you’re opening up to me. Even the first time you came here at the studio.”

“I haven’t divulged anything,” Light counters.

“I saw the way you observed the portraits on the wall, how your body arched with each look I casted at you. I only saw what you willingly showed me, Yagami.” He takes a step closer to Light, who doesn’t flinch. “You acted the part quite perfectly. It’s over.”

 “I’m afraid of your photographs. They show too much of me.”

“You don’t want anyone to see yourself?” L queries. He tilts his head to meet Light’s gaze.

“Not anymore. There is too much filthiness in the human heart. Everybody hides from everybody,” Light retorts bitterly.

“And yet, here you are.” L glances about, so as to remind Light he yielded and came black to the studio after all.

Light swallows. Moonlight creeps through the blinds, allowing L to catch that glimmer of shame in Light’s eyes. Such a terrible, terrible sight. His chest aches and it’s as if his heart was closing tightly like a fist.

It’s powerlessness that Light fears the most, and it’s the reason it took him so long to close the space between them.

Never in his solitude has L felt truly powerless. He can escape weakness because he knows its name – disdain then neglect and abandonment. All spelt differently, all reminding him of the unwanted child he will always be. It is different for someone like Light. He has been trusted with both brilliance and beauty, holy gifts weighting heavy on his delicate shoulders. How easy it must be to feel powerless in that position; nobody forgives a misstep from such a gifted creature. Yet, inexplicably, he sees himself in Light. Someone he has been eagerly waiting for. Someone he can reach out to and tell: “We share the same vision, how about I show you?”

Light’s voice jerks L back to the studio. “Yes, here I am.”

There is an upheaval in Light’s body language. He holds L’s gaze unflinchingly, defiantly. Then he pulls L forward into personal space. “I can’t possibly fight this anymore” he whispers against L’s skin. Soon, L feels his fingers clawing at his back and his teeth biting his lips.

“Finally,” L breathes. The word pass his mouth without him realising.

He doesn’t shut his eyes as he loses himself in Light’s soft, elegant kiss. They part, and L finds himself unable to breathe so far from him. It’s absurd, they’re still so close he can feel Light’s heartbeat increasing madly in tempo. L places two firm hands on Light’s waist and he kisses him again, hungry and open-mouthed. They open their eyes at the same time and the sight of Light’s dilated pupils feels infinitely better than anything L has ever tasted.

Obsession is often depicted as heavy and overpowering but Light… Light reigns in L’s mind with the subtlety of the silk he loves so much. It’s a chill night and the model wrapped himself up in silk brocade, swift cranes embroidered on the sleeves; a pattern so princely, so wonderfully feminine. It’s borderline masochistic for Light to wear that when he stiffen at the word make-up. L adores him for that duality.

“Is there anything remotely comfortable in there?” Light whimpers, wrapping an arm around L’s neck. “Not that I really care –“

“A couch in my office,” L answers impatiently.

He intends to lead Light to the dim-lighted room, they’re mid-way to it when L decides to taste him again. He pins him against a wall. “Not here, in the office” Light demands. L’s hand trails down Light’s hips. Light wriggles away from him, darts into the office. L follows him, his fingers already itching for Light’s warm, soft skin. He doesn’t flinch when he hears some of his insanely expensive lighting equipment falling on the ground.

L relishes the sight of Light Yagami standing, breathless and slightly disheveled in his office. “Nice room, why didn’t you show it to me the first time?”

“Would have things gone any differently?” L drawls.

Light kisses the pulse behind L’s ear. “Possibly.”

L unbuttons Light’s shirt and lies him on the couch, lithe and precise in his movements. Light’s eyes widen. “You’re quick.”

“Believe it or not, I’m experienced.” He straddles Light who’s smiling his boyish smile beneath him. L slides a hand in his trousers. “I felt you didn't have any, though.”

L clearly wants the filter between Light’s brain and mouth to snap. “I have –“ Light is panting and looks exasperated by it. “I have experience, thank you – very much.”

“With men? Older men perhaps?” L taunts. Then he does something clever with his hand and a long flow of curses gets lost in gasps of pleasure.  Light gets his revenge soon enough – he folds forward and leaves a trail of biting kisses around L’s nipples. It’s unexpected and wild and perfect. L’s body shiver above Light, whose lips curl up in a malicious smile.

Usually, L only has sex he can control. The intensity is never a risk, it is part of the contract. Bites and bruises blossom in the places he has chosen in advance. He lays eyes on a stranger in a bar and knows exactly how he will sound later in the evening. It leaves him with a constant craving for something uncontrollable. He strips Light off his clothes, lets him do the same.

On his neckline, Light presses a kiss. It’s soft, like a blessing. That’s it: L feels _blessed_ to have met Light. He has an end in view, and it’s bright, and it’s promising. He flutters his eyes shut, losing himself in the erratic cadence of Light’s respiration.

Light hooks a leg around L’s thigh. “Do it before I change my mind” he whispers, and somehow it sounds like a threat. L’s heartbeat pulses in his throat, he nods. He must look intimidated because Light’s eyes lit up with pride. The sight of Light, flushed, over-sensitive beneath his body was entrancing enough. Presently, Light looks majestic, his elegance unblemished in spite of the sweet depravation he indulges in.  His beauty borders on the divine. L thrusts in, Light arches against him. It happens in one sinuous movement of both their bodies. The faintest movement finds its echo in a snap of the other’s hips, in a whimper or a name whispered over and over, insanely against warm skin.

At some point, Light finally goes off-script; he pants and he pleads, and his eyelashes tremble. He lets himself be dominated by his own rapturous desire of L. Yet, even then Yagami bites his lips red until the urge to cry subsides. It touches L, for some mysterious reason. Light folds forward so their lips meet again and gives a violent push to the kiss this time. L just loses it. His hazy mind thinks their tangled screams and jagged breaths sound strangely melodious. Perhaps because it’s a song L will never sing alone.

To both of them, love is an exhibition. Or it can’t exist at all.

 

## NAOMI

 

When Naomi looks at Beyond, she can’t help but picture a battered fox everyone mistakes for a coyote. Intelligent as it is, the fox will rarely hurt you – except if you really make it easy for it and stand in its way, but Naomi is too careful for that.

She pardons Beyond some of his faults because his mind wanders in such superlunary spheres, it cannot be bothered to abide by the ordinary rules. She scowls at him sometimes, of course, but not nearly as often as she rolls her eyes at L. It’s inexplicable. Although Naomi sang with both of them and L barely looked at her once while Beyond fixed his gaze on her until the very last note, so there’s that.

Naomi doesn’t resent L at all for that – she doesn’t feel connected to him either. It’s not something you choose, at any rate. She figures it’s useless to explain it and leaves it at that.

She has more pressing issues. “You’re telling me you’re not mad at L?”

A faint smile drifts across Beyond’s lips. “Nope. Maybe a little, but not as much as I resent my mother for the impossible name she gave me. Although, I should let go now, it’s time, don’t you think?”

Most of Beyond’s questions don’t call for an answer. Naomi thinks it’s because he used to be the only person he could talk to for a long time.

She lowers her eyes and stares at her cocktail, as if the vivid colours of the Sex on the Beach will help her muster up the courage to ask the question that stings her lips. “…You don’t mind…being...”

“Used?” He pauses, an expression of sincere amusement etched on his face. It’s sweet, at first, then turns bitter. “I don’t think L means it like that. It’s his style. He doesn’t like himself very much, but he will always come first. Go figure.”

“You seem to have him figured out already.”

“Pretty much. Don’t tell him, though. My extensive knowledge of him is my only asset.”

He says knowledge, Naomi thinks, because his understanding of L, however impressive, has never been instinctive. He studied L with an obsessive devotion, like that of a scholar for his subject of study. It took him years.

Naomi can't decide if she admires or fear him for that. Probably both. She is not one for clear-cut choices. As a detective, she is naturally attracted to strange personalities and enigmas.

"Don't think I will just obey him, though." Beyond takes a bite of his pretzel. He loves those, Naomi knows, because they remind him of home.

"Aren't you going to spy on Yagami? They seem pretty close already, I'm not sure you could turn the situation to your advantage even if you told him L sent you."

"Dear Naomi, you are too soft,” he grins. “Then again, you're on the side of the law. I get it”

“What are you going to do then?”

"Study Yagami as a part of my life-long research on L. Lawliet. Starting by that name. Light. L is obsessed with light. He's like Goethe on his deathbed, _Mehr Licht, Mehr Licht_! I'm not bullshitting you Naomi, it's borderline unhealthy. That might be an unknown side-effect of cocaine. He wasn't like this before. He was sweeter, less arrogant. It's probably Anna's death.” He pauses. “Or Mihael. That touchy Russian. L has to stop hanging around with those kids. Mihael is blinded by his ridiculous charisma. Can't blame him, everyone is a little bit in love with L. We are all born in love with L, but for many of us, it lasts only a few seconds. The time it takes to notice he's a sort of a jerk….Are you listening to me?"

"Sorry I just realised why you Wammy kids had virtually no friends in the outside world. Go on."

Beyond laughs. "You could have been a Wammy's kid too. The entrance exam is not even hard. Not that I don’t trust your abilities. Or maybe it is hard after all. I wouldn't know, I never took it."

"Really? L did and you didn't?" Naomi asks, genuinely impressed.

"Yeah. It's a long story. But once upon a time, he wasn't Director Wammy's favourite student. I was,” Beyond confesses. “I'd recite entire books to the old man. Good times, good times.” He glances about pensively. Then, “Actually it sucked. I had no friends and everybody thought I was a fraud because in truth, I wasn't that good at art.”

Naomi shakes her head. “You are a great make-up artist. And a decent scholar, sometimes.” She takes a sip of her cocktail. “So, you’re really going to study Yagami?”

“Yes. Who knows? We might become friends. Wouldn’t that be hilarious?”

Naomi remains silent. She can’t shake off the feeling that the next months are not going to be hilarious at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pssssssst, here is the statue L compares Light to: https://40.media.tumblr.com/791fc561699f1c30e21c02625e3123f9/tumblr_mlqmxmBey01rormhco1_500.jpg. Look it up, it's really interesting.


	5. Bodies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That one was longer than expected. The next one shouldn't take too long because I know exactly what is going to happen. By the way I have finished the outline for the first part of this so I won't get stuck. (about 10 chapters I'd say?)  
> By the way I'm on tumblr (mellodear), don't hesitate to say hi! I have also created an inspiration tumblr for this (lightmorningstar) if you're interested (it's mostly fashion and photography...as you can imagine).

 

 

“I want you to be weak. As weak as I am.”   
Milan Kundera,  _The Unbearable Lightness of Being_

 

* * *

 

## LIGHT

There is a gallery filled with awestruck faces and never-ending praise. Wide eyes flicker from a portrait to another, amateurs mouthing half-assured comments on the photographer’s technique. The nudes, especially, cause quite a stir. Light is standing still in at the entrance, proudly so. He is a man in his mid-twenty, wearing a two button Dior Jacket that is already out of fashion. He knows that. He hasn’t elected that jacket for its beauty – although it holds the distant traces of beauty of all things that were once cherished. That jacket, to him, represents a twist of fate. As do the photographs in his pocket. As does the man who is rubbing his arm. The photographer talks at length of the natural light and its effect on bare photographed skin. Light sends a smile or two over to him then turns to the unfamiliar lenses of other cameras. He knows L is the only photographer he should be afraid of, so he tilts his head and give a cold smile – exactly what they all expected of him. He remembers feeling used, emptied by the flashes of those who fell for his perfect posture. Now it has become hard not to smirk. They can’t touch him. They try and try again, but it’s all in vain.

L squeezes his hand.

“No photos until we’re outside. This is a gallery, not the Oscars. And even then, avoid shooting Light Yagami. I’m the only one who should and I don’t know how long I’m going to put up with the terrible angles you all choose. Yes, he’s beautiful from every angle. No, it’s not a reason to be sloppy.”

At that, the model doesn’t flinch. Compliments sweep across his face, but he doesn’t sense them anymore. They’re part of the background.

It’s only when Light hears himself say: “We were never friends. I couldn’t bear a friend like him. He’s my photographer. I don’t pose for anyone else” that the dream starts shrinking on itself. Dreams collapse as soon as they touch reality.

Light wakes with a gentle start, immediately mourning the gallery of his dream. Early morning sun showers him in its tender light. The day has come and this is its silent reminder. The dream has left him with a strange resolve to dwell around the studio. He is able to plan that, which means his brain has finally reasserted its control over his body. Light folds forward and observe L’s long legs hooked around his own – L’s are paler, and even slender. He slithers away from his grip, eyes locked on him. The sight of famous photographer L. Lawliet unconscious beside him draws an indecipherable smile from Light. Mustering up all his courage, he lifts his own right leg in the air, wincing. It takes him ten minutes to slide over the couch (how he ended up on top of L is a mystery but it sure is more practical), get on his feet and cover himself up.

Light bypasses L’s lighting equipment, staggering slightly. He sidesteps a projector lying on the ground. There is always something in his way. The studio is a part of L, and it’s trying to chase him away. It’s silent and beautiful, though. The eerie stillness reminds Light of the empty classrooms he slithered into, back in high school. The afternoons were quietly spent here, in a calm solitude he grew to love.

Behind the large windows, London resembles a vast stage, with flickering lights and an audience that is always in motion. It’s exhilarating, to have someone to sneak into the wings with.

Light welcomes that thought with joy and terror in equal quantities. Which one is seizing him presently? He dissociates himself from his feelings – an art he masters perfectly, and brings L to mind. He thinks of the night in bits, fragments of sounds, flickering sensations.

“But he is a man,” he mutters. The absence of a feeling you were expecting is unsettling. It shakes your tidy, predictable universe, like the sudden disappearance of a friend whose presence you were used to, however annoying.

Light thinks of the bottles sitting on the mirror counter of his bathroom. He mocks those who smoke too much knowing he has made a slave of his body too. Thinking takes too much time without the pills. Pushing the door of L’s bathroom feels like infiltrating the borders of a foreign land. The door doesn’t even creak – it slides swiftly to let Light pass. He feels an inexplicable joy.

The bathroom here is perfectly odourless. It’s only reasonably clean. There isn’t any mirror, only a framed portrait hanging on the wall besides the sink. Light can guess why. He wonders how many models have been in this room and if any of them understood L’s intent. The purpose of removing a mirror, of course, is to deprive the model of its most loyal ally.  That way, the ever-anxious model has no choice but to trust the photographer, as he turns a decaying body immortal on the photograph, embalming it with light.

The trap set by L doesn’t scare Light.

None of this scares him – the dream (which under any other circumstances would qualify as a nightmare), the bathroom and the absence of mirror, his mind turned foggy by the spell L has casted on him. It will come to haunt him later.

For now, he can only be pleased. It was a perfectly admirable performance, for a first time.

Light kids himself into believing it could be the last. It would be the reasonable choice after all. He has freed himself from L precisely by yielding to his power. He exorcised his obsession by giving it a name – it’s called “April 25th, 9pm at Lawliet’s studio” and it is one of a kind.

He won’t feel the photographer’s penetrating look lingering on him, brushing his skin at any time of the day. His touch is a memory, not a fantasy, and it goes where memories goes; in the back of his mind, never to be seen again. A weight has been lifted off Light’s shoulders – why would he accept to be fettered again?

To be understood, perhaps.

Light takes a deep breath and allows himself to smile. It’s sweet, then bitter. All of this…it’s probably how he should have felt when he solved the Higuchi case. He didn’t. It wasn’t until his father thanked him that pride rushed through him and even then, it was a controlled form of joy (so it wasn’t _joy_ at all).

His back starts hurting as he gets off the shower. He doesn’t mind. This is what Light thinks: “pain does not necessarily means suffering.” Familiar words. He can’t remember the first time he uttered them. The last time was a few hours ago. Light smiles at the memory. L had looked so worried.

He is wrapping a towel around his waist when he catches sight of something strange. “Eyeliner,” Light comments out loud. He lifts the unfamiliar object at eye level. A mental battle begins then, between attraction and revulsion. He feels himself drawn to the idea of transgressing yet another rule. Fingers cramp round the eyeliner pencil. Would he feel any different? He does put on foundation sometimes, but that’s part of the job and socially acceptable, even for a man. Eye-liner, quite inexplicably, is not.

Perhaps he should practice from imagination first. He mentally brings the pencil at eye level. It brushes the soft skin, not yet stain it. Then, the hand freezes. It dawns to Light that he has virtually no idea how it should be done. One second of hesitation; it’s all it takes for black, to ruin a spotless skin. He is grateful not to have been born a woman. It must be exhausting, to face such a risk every day. What if he ends up looking ridiculous, instead of beautiful?

 _Who am I kidding, I’d look ridiculous either way,_ he thinks. A shiver trails down his spine. A man should not wear make-up – this is not a fact supported by the solid pillars of nature, he knows this. Masculinity is a frail edifice and he has been injected with its principles.

But these are the laws of home and he is far from home. He sacrificed his pride for a man who swallowed it up. And here’s the truth: Light will never regret it.

A voice jolts him back to reality.

“Oh, shit. I won’t get to see Light Yagami without the mask?” L’s voice, exhausted and husky, has kept its strange, melodious lilt. It always remains untouched by the words he utters, however vulgar or hurtful. Light wonders if rage and sorrow can change that.

“Wasn’t last night enough?” Light asks.

 “It was outstanding – I take half the credit for that, of course,” L drawls. Light hears him leaning against the wall opposing the closed door. “But I’m not that easily satisfied, Yagami.”

Light bites his lip. He wants L to call him Light, but he swallows back the words. Here lies the danger of yielding to temptation; it’s a multi-headed monster, and if you satisfy one head, another comes biting your hand soon enough.

“Are you putting on make-up?” L asks from behind the door. His voice holds a note of genuine concern laced with childish excitement. He is on the verge of teaching Light how to choose his shade of mascara.

Light brushes the skin of his neck. There are bruises here too.

“Why would I put on make-up?”

“You’re thinking: ‘I don’t need make-up to hide in plain sight’ and you’re right. This doesn’t mean you shouldn’t wear any. It could be your trademark. Pretty boys with eyeliner, they sell well you know.”

“Why does everything you say sounds like teasing?” Light sighs.

“I’m not joking. You could be a prince, Yagami. A prince in a kingdom of pretty moody models. They all have that that studied "this is the face I use for all photographs, I learned it in third grade on School Pictures Day" pout, but you don’t need that at all to seduce an audience.”

“Or a photographer.”  

Silence descends, save for the distant murmur of the outside world. It’s short-lived: L thinks fast.

“Are you proud of seducing me?” he bites back.

Light buttons his shirt. He brought a spare with him, expecting he would spend the night at the studio. It’s Chanel.

“I do take pride in that. You’re not easy to approach if your reputation is anything to go by.”

It’s true. The words fall differently, as always when sincerity wriggles its way out of his lies. Light makes sure L is aware of that. L keeps silent. Is he the one having second-thoughts after all? Light forgets the eye-liner, leaves it on the sink, and goes to the door.

L studies him with his piercing grey eyes while Light inspects his outfit. The black turtleneck disappeared in favour of a formless sweater.

“Oh you’ve dressed. That’s a shame,” L moans, maintaining his deadpan expression.

“I could say the same thing,” Light retorts. “With the body you have, you could do much better than that.”

“I am not psychologically ready to listen to the advice of a 19 year-old model,” L retorts. He has some nerve, for a man who possesses the same wardrobe as some idle teenager in the 90's. From what Light has seen of it, though.

 “You haven’t lost your authority by sleeping with me, if that’s what you’re afraid of.” Light teases. He closes the space between them, an elegant yet cheerful lilt in his step. “Although, you did go slightly mad for a minute.”

L eyes him maliciously. “No need to bite, dear. No one heard your high-pitched squeaking.”

Light’s body stiffens at the remark. He darts his eyes to the main studio area. The lightning equipment has been put back in place. “How can you say things like that?” he says, his attention shifting to L again.

“Because I’m allowed to. You won’t win at that game, kid,” L gives a cocky wink. _He’s overdoing it_ , Light thinks.

“With all due respect, you have no sense of manners. You won’t lure me into regretting it.”

“I hope you don’t. How terrible to regret your first time,” L practically spits the words. He crosses his arms, still leant against the wall. “Why did you lie to me? I hate being lied to.”

“I told you I have experience. Just not _that kind_ of experience.” It comes out as an apology. That wasn’t planned.

“You know how to talk your way out of anything, don’t you? It’s quite charming. That doesn’t mean I will accept to be lied to.”

Light nods, mostly because he is short of an answer. Then, he curls his arm around L’s waist and pulls him into a kiss.

“I can’t wait to do it again,” Light whispers.

L moves his hand to Light’s neck. “Then I can take more pictures of you. A tryptic maybe? I’ll name it ‘ _The moon, unveiled’_.” The way he delivers the words tell everything.

“Nobody would understand what you mean.” Light kisses him again. L flattens against the white wall. The contrast with his raven hair is entrancing. He is as beautiful as he was the evening Light heard his singing voice. He looked so sickly, under the unforgiving spotlights.  

The kiss ends and there is a moment of silence before L snakes away from him. Then: “You think no one would understand? Oh, Light. I would make them understand. Highlight your shiny complexion, suggest a shaky breath and put the emphasis on the pinky colour of your cheeks...” He edges closer to Light. “You have just woken up from a night filled with impossible pleasures. Your bare skin is lazily covered by a white sheet and your head is turned to the window. You’d think it’s an attitude, but for once – it’s not. You just can’t accept the night has come to an end, so you daydream, play it again and again in mind. That, and you can’t possibly look the photographer in the eye just yet. He’s your _lover_ , after all.”

Colour rises high on Light’s cheeks. He doesn’t let this ruin his posture and rolls his eyes to make a point. He doesn’t know which exactly. “I’d prefer something less revealing.”

“Or so you would like to think. But I’m the artist, I know best.”

L places his hands on his shoulders, Light seizes them. It’s an intimate gesture, to hold hands, even more so when they belong to an artist.

“And I, _Mr Artist_ , am the model. No model, no pictures. No pictures, no success,” Light replies, with soft kisses placed on L’s hands for punctuation.

“Modelling has finally grown on you then.” L grins, showing his pointy teeth.

Light keeps silent, seized by the realisation of his desire to become L. Lawliet’s unique source of inspiration. Light marvels that his being holds the seed of creation; the sight of him sets the artist in motion. There is no greater power in the universe than the ability to move an artist. It’s creating, minus the risk of destruction. Artists bleed all over their art, their suffering printed on glossy paper. The muse is protected, untouched, immortal.

“I suppose so.”

Light buries his head in L’s neck, bites him where L hasn’t allowed him to. L doesn’t protest. Does he sense Light’s victorious smile against his skin?

L’s photographs possess a power Light latches on to. He robbed L of some of them the day he invaded his existence, changing it for good. They reassure him, in a way, and remind him of who he is. A powerful force in the universe, something nobody will ever comprehend – like the moon. It’s not a coincidence that L grew to love the moon shortly before their first meeting. Fate has a way to manifest itself in a coy way, before unleashing its inexorable will on humans.

L informs him the photoshoot is scheduled for the next week. They vow not to see each other before that.

 

 

## NAOMI

 

A complex internal debate is taking place in Naomi’s mind when she hears the footsteps. She throws away the DVD boxes on the couch, thankful not to have to choose between Sin City and Kill Bill on her own. Some choices are just too cruel to be made alone.

The footsteps are too loud and too clear, as to mask a swelling anxiety. She also guesses that the visitor is wearing Dr Martens. It rings, and rings. Naomi unlocks the door to face a blonde-haired punk with a nose piercing and a scowl.

“Mihael. I assume you’re not looking for Beyond," she says, recalling how strained their relation is. She tilts her head. “But it’s his apartment. Who could you possibly be looking for?”

Mihael’s lips curl up in a small smile. Naomi feels relieved – he’s strangely intimidating, when he stares.

He is waiting for her to guess correctly. “You’re definitely looking for Beyond, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Is he here?” He doesn’t ask her why she’s here. It’s a half-empty apartment filled with boxes – he may have deduced she came to help Beyond move in.

 “He just left. Didn’t tell me where he was going,” she says, her tone successfully veiling her white lie. She crosses her arms. “It’s about L?”

“Yes. I know he got Beyond to live here so he could be closer to Yagami. And I also know Beyond is not the obedient type. He won’t resist approaching Yagami – I guess I wanted to ask him…It’s stupid, Naomi. You have better things to do.”

“It’s not stupid. It’s your life. I will listen.” She takes a step backward to let him in.

Mihael averts her gaze, as if he doesn’t want her to dig any deeper into this. Yet, he takes the hint and enters.

She puts him at ease the only way she deems truly efficient: with a cup of green tea. Mihael sips his drink suspiciously. Of course, he is the sort of person who prefers coffee.

“I really could get over it, you know. But Yagami is just so fucking unacceptable. It’s something in the way he speaks, like everything around him is fragile when he’s the one looking so damn precious.”

“Well, he’s a model after all,” Naomi says.

“They’re not all so irritating. L dated one or two, and I liked them. You know why? Because I knew they wouldn’t last. L is great, he’s a genius and all. But he will eat at you until he’s full. He’s a vortex, absorbing the ones he loves mercilessly. And I love him for that but – he’s never full. He demands more and you’re never going to be enough.”

“Don’t you think Yagami is going to be scared of that? If he has things to hide, it might be wiser to avoid L. He doesn’t know the word intimacy. Well, not for others at least. He’s the reason I systematically clean my internet history.”

She suppresses a shiver. “He can be terribly intrusive.”

“Yagami doesn’t make sense. Who knows what he is after? Maybe that’s exactly what he wants, to be understood,” Mihael counters. He pauses. “Must be exhausting to be a phony.”

“Well, he sure seems stressed from what you’ve told me. I suppose he does take Adderall for a reason, after all.” She keeps silent, then: “You’re perceptive Mihael. You could be a detective.”

“I’m a writer. Same thing, except I’ll die old and unfulfilled in many ways.”

“I have yet to read your writing, but I’m certain it’s beautiful,” she reassures him in a way that is reminiscent of the comfort she offered Beyond – how many times has she placed the same firm hand on his shoulder? Yet, there is a raw sensitivity in Mihael she never detected in Beyond.

“You’re a good listener, Naomi,” he says after a moment of silence. “I feel bad for people like you, those who listen.”

Her hand tightens on his shoulder. “Why?”

“Nobody thinks of listening to you.”

She knows her devotion to others borders on the sinister sometimes. She forgets her own solitude of mind that way, let foreign tears soak her wet, so she doesn’t have to cry.

Mihael’s bright green eyes catch the light. It reminds her of something.

“You have been L’s model for a while,” she states, as a detective would, only to trigger a reaction, or to change the subject.

Mihael shifts in his seat. “Yeah. But he is hard to work with, you know. Exhausting, even. I guess we weren’t compatible. He kept putting the emphasis on my nose.”

She smiles in compassion, recalling her own disastrous photoshoot. “Shouldn’t we be relieved that L has finally found a muse? He has been obsessed with that idea since he turned to photography,” she ponders.

Mihael drops his gaze to his cup of tea, paying a languid attention to the intricate pattern formed by the steam.

And they drink in silence. Naomi has never seen Yagami. She is left with a fleeting image – a ravishing young man with a careful voice, whose words are so beautiful, as woven in light itself. That is the sort of muse L. Lawliet needs to promote his art. But for the photographer to work, there must be a soul to investigate, wounds or sins to reveal. This is how Lawliet envisions his art, and compromises are not permitted in art. The other side of Light Yagami, claimed by L as an echo of his own, must be terrifying. Nature, Naomi learnt, is obsessed with balance. She had been abashed to discover that most poisons smell of fruits, almonds or mint.

Mihael blames his distrust of Yagami on his irrational jealousy, but he may be right to worry, Naomi thinks. She doesn’t say that to him, advises him to focus on his exams instead.

“Will you come to his first photoshoot with Yagami?” she queries, as Mihael is straddling his motorcycle. Naomi offered to accompany him to the door – mostly because she can’t resist the sight of a brand new motorcycle.

“I don’t know. Maybe I can convince myself not to come. But it’s L – I never missed a photoshoot.”

She nods in understanding.

She hears Beyond fiddling with his keys three hours later – the DVDs boxes are still laying on the couch. The door creaks open but Naomi’s eyes remains fixed on the screen. She motions Beyond to come closer.

She devoted her afternoon researching Yagami and found nothing. Nothing at all. If you were to form a being from the information available on him, the result would be a perfect shell of a human. And maybe there’s nothing to worry about, but she can’t shake up this horrible feeling - that the last time Mihael had such anguish in his voice, L was on the verge of overdosing.

 

 

## L

 

What is a photoshoot? Two bodies, one bathing in the light, the other operating the spotlight in the comfort of darkness. The model is sprayed with imaginary bullets, the cadence is perfect. The photographer pauses. He’s wary, perhaps if his heart is not yet rusty, of hurting the person within the body. The model cracks a smile – a lackluster smile, with a pistol brushing his temple. 

L. Lawliet orders his models about, demands they strike eye-pleasing, charming poses whilst casting audience-defying looks. They nod, smile politely, obey. His voice rarely raise. Reputation comes with a price he grew to hate: submissiveness of others. Without fear of being contradicted, defied, challenged, L is free to be his worst, wildest self. It doesn’t please him.

For his first shoot of Light Yagami, he sits him on a throne, the image of masculine power contrasting with the elegant boyhood of the model. He expects Light’s eyes to hold that charming insolence no one could resist.

L’s body is a tool that serves him diligently. L respects the extremes – beauty and ugliness are both worthy of worship, but his body is neither beautiful nor ugly. It’s just there. Obedient. Slender. That’s all he asks. Conversely, Light’s body is not just a tool. It’s the only gateway to his mind. Light must be aware of that, or he wouldn’t have turned it into a weapon. With that body, Light has stolen from L his deathlike, calm solitude. He’s still alone, in the darkness always, but it’s a wild place now. It’s a wasteland named Light Yagami, and L has to find a source of water quickly or his adventure will be short-lived. His presence is merely tolerated, L knows, and Light only showed him what he wanted him to see. Perhaps that is already too much for someone like Light Yagami.

L feels safe, behind his camera. His fingers dance a familiar dance, eyes flicker to from exposure and aperture to depth of field, and it begins.

He has to fetter Light to his lens. It should be simple, he’s done it before. In spite of brilliant mind, Yagami is a model, like the others. His eyes closed, L tries to clear his mind. Then, there’s Yagami pressing blessings on L’s skin, gazing in silent reverence at these long limbs, his own body, this work of art, this holy place, trembling madly against L’s. He even _cried_. Thank God, it was pitch-black around them. L couldn’t have looked away otherwise.

He knows that, because now that he can see him, it’s _impossible_ to look away.

L freezes.

“Everything okay, Mr Lawliet?” an assistant asks meekly.

“I can’t – It’s different. Something has changed,” L says, frustration crinkling his eyes. It’s as if Yagami is resisting the trap set by his lens. Does he even realise it? Presently, he is casting L a curious look, not breaking the pose chosen for him. He only _seems_ obedient.

“Am I a bad muse?” Light queries. He’s all malice and mockery now. He is not even trying to reassure L. _Perhaps he planned it all. He planned to ruin my art,_ L thinks. It’s nonsense.

Light has no reason to sabotage his art. This arrogant attitude is a brat’s way to rebel against L’s evident supremacy in their relationship. Same reason he stole the photographs in the first place. Fear, not cruelty. L has felt Light’s wish to stay with him as long as possible. His legs danced and his back arched at his cadence. Did he felt safe then? He seemed to suffer at times, but for Light, pain is pleasure’s ugly twin. He has given L more than he would like to admit and now, he’s trying to keep face.

“You’re not yet a muse," L answers coldly. “Do you want to become one? Then stop resisting it. You’ve done something wrong, or I would have taken these stupid pictures already.”

I’m being unfair, L realises, because I thought he would be afraid. He studies Light’s face and all the smiles he suppresses. Why is he so delighted by the situation?

“I think he needs a break,” Light announces to the assistants. A few puzzled looks are exchanged, every head eventually craning to L for confirmation.

“The model has a point,” L says, and fiddles with his camera.

Light’s steps make a careless sound as he closes the space between them. He places a hand upon L’s shoulder, long fingers skimming the wool of his sweater.

“There is no match, anywhere, to your talent. If you can’t take these pictures today, it means it wasn’t meant to be. Perhaps it’s too soon.”

“Did I ruin everything? That’s the question I ask myself. I know I’m the best in the field and – God, I know no one can capture you like I do.”

“I refuse to believe it was a mistake,” Light says, his voice turning cold.

“It’s not the act in itself. I wanted it to happen, so I would be seeing you clearly.” L narrows his eyes, stares even more intensely. “But I still can’t figure out what you are. I think about the other night, trying to catch a glimpse of you, but even then you were too controlled. You wanted it to happen, so you had time to prepare, I suppose.”

“You said it was outstanding,” Light reminds him.

“It was supposed to be. Don’t you see? It was a play. An amazing one. But you rarely ever let go of Light Yagami.”

“It’s probably because I _am_ Light Yagami. What did you expect?’ Light snaps. “I won’t sacrifice myself for your art. I won’t apologise because I’m not the muse you waited for. Maybe you should appreciate what you have, instead of yearning for more, all the time.”

Then, it dawns like a revelation on L. It’s just like the moon, the sea, and everything L admires. Light is perpetually changing, in a constant state of flux. You can’t take a picture of what is already gone – he has to accept that and shoot Light with the same reverence he once shot the moon. He has to accept he will never be able to take a picture of Light as a whole, but only pieces of him in an ever-flickering light.

Once he accepts that, he can observes the different parts of him as separate entities, play with them differently. After all, we give the moon different names as per the facets that are visible to us at a given time. Light, on his throne, has to look fearful without letting anguish maim his princely features. The allure of a young martyr. He’s not ready yet.

L pulls Light closer to him. Light's eyes widen and the photographer can feel his model’s body stiffening.

“What are you doing? Your assistants are here. _Wedy_ is here.”

It would be delightful to see Light Yagami in a rage. L’s fingers itch – a familiar pain, now.

“I have to reveal you and only fear can do that.” L whispers. “You’re lucky I know how to frighten you.”

He grabs Light by the collar and kisses him open-mouthed, long enough so everyone around them has turned their heads to them, looks lingering avidly on their sensual embrace. Light melts against his lover. He forgets to act the role of perfect Light Yagami for a minute.

Then he comes back, panting.  “Have you lost your mind, Lawliet?!”

“Always, when you’re around."

A beat. Eyes lock and whispers ascend around them. Light blenches a little.

“We’ll do it tomorrow. The photoshoot. It will be perfect,” L promises.

“As long as you don’t undress me in public,” Light replies in an undertone, and he darts away from L, from everyone.

 

## BEYOND

He finds Yagami sat in the library, his table apparently distant from the entrance and the peering looks of idle students – it is a known fact that university libraries are the old-fashioned, snobbish version of Tinder. Those who expect to be left alone must make that clear.

Yagami sits alone near the window so as to prevent anyone hovering around him. Yet, he is still the first person to catch the eye from the entrance, apollonian features lovingly bathed in sunlight.

Either clarity is not Yagami’s forte or it’s on purpose that he harbours a certain ambiguity regarding his intentions.

He ridicules the curious ones, turn them into voyeurs. He senses their glances, how long they linger. Only those who dare observe him, really _observe_ him, will see his ravenous smile. Beyond sees it. In Light Yagami, he finds the evidence that beauty is terror.

All it takes to be spellbound, is a spell. Beyond knows the spell, so he avoids the curse.

He greeted Yagami with a sketchy bow. Yagami blinked at him and gave a small incline of the head, then assumed his regal pose. It was the fakest attitude Beyond had ever seen.

He hasn’t changed his mind, even now that Yagami has elegantly gestured him to sit at his table. The lengths some people can go just to remain polite.

“I don’t teach private lessons. _Especially_ if the true intent isn’t studying,” he announces, then drops his gaze on his half-written essay.

“I’m studying at the Wammy’s Institute. Heard you posed for Wammy’s students the other day,” Beyond replies quickly. “And for Lawliet yesterday.”

Yagami offers him a smile. Tight and cold, the image of controlled disdain. It’s clear to Beyond that Yagami is keeping himself on a leash. No one is that perfect. Beyond’s idea of a disguise is different. It all comes down to dosage – you have to let people see glimpses of you, especially the bad ones. It’s terribly efficient, to hide the darkest parts of yourself behind a flawed façade. People will stop at that. Who looks for a monster in a bastard? No one. Angels and demons, on the other hand, are made of the same fabric.

Coincidently, L. Lawliet is obsessed with religious imagery. (He elected “I blaspheme, therefore I am” as the name of his first exhibition, pointedly ignoring Mr Wammy’s protests).

“I was supposed to pose for Lawliet yesterday but – It doesn’t matter. I got one modeling opportunity and I took it. It’s just luck, and I know it won’t last.”

Beyond acts the role of the fool. “Why?”

“It’s not what I’m meant to do. Rather, it’s not what I should be doing,” Yagami says calmly.

“But you’ve come to like it.”

Light takes his pen in hand, writes a few words. Beyond tilts his head so as to meet his gaze. It’s in vain.

“Lawliet…is insanely skilled. I never knew being photographed could feel like creation. I never considered modelling was art, before,” Yagami says, and it’s getting harder to tell whether he’s lying or not.

“Then why do you bother studying law?”

 “I have to," Yagami replies. His writing is beautiful, the pen is barely skimming the paper.

“Seems to me you’re just too scared," Beyond says, his lips curling up in a mischievous smile.

Beyond knows L never asked him to dig into Light’s past. It’s a simple taste for mischief that guides his actions. He never was one for nonsensical violence. But he holds grunges – forgives and never forgets. ‘Nothing is less amnesiac than forgiveness. You never forget the wounds you healed.’ His mother used to say, her ever-sweet expression turning sorrowful. Beyond fully adheres to his mother’s words. But great thinkers honour their mentors by scribbling on their manuscripts, adding on to their thoughts. His mother thought forgiveness was strength, because in the end, your wounds are not bleeding anymore. As for him, he thinks you can still be mad at the scars.

He has no reason to obey L after everything they went through.

“I’m not scared, I’m doing my duty. It may be easy for you all, to just abandon everything and live for art, but it doesn’t work that way for me,” Yagami explains.

“Wow. So you’d rather live in a lie? Life is meaningless. Everyone dies, everything we ever love will disappear. What’s the fucking point of living?” Beyond gestures to the window. “Should we just jump, then? What do you think, pretty boy?”

“Don’t call me that,” Yagami orders.

“I have minor respect for names,” Beyond chuckles. “Sorry. I just call people what I want.”

“Do they teach bad manners at the Wammy’s Institute?”

“You think I sound like Lawliet? I don’t. My friends think I sound like him, but I disagree. I just tend to imitate people I find intriguing.”

“Do you know Lawliet personally?” Yagami queries. _He let me talk just so he could ask that question_ , Beyond thinks.

“I have my sources. Nothing particularly secret, though. You might say I just had to read the Wammy’s Institute’s newspaper – they devote a large space to their successful graduates. L is the best of them and happens to have the most… _committed_ fanbase.”

There is no doubt Yagami will discover the truth soon enough. Nothing is more exciting than a game you know will be short-lived.

“What do they say about L?” Yagami asks, and he finally looks up from his work. An inexplicable stir of envy rises in Beyond – he is beautiful, truly beautiful, when he never was, to anyone. Then he thinks of Anna and how she felt about her body. _I am not in a position to complain_ , he tells himself, and he shifts awkwardly in his seat.

“Oh, the usual. Intimidating, impossible, brilliant. He doesn’t read it. Claims to be above all that, but you bet he cares about what they say.”

Light is staring intensely now. Beyond responds with a sly arched brow.  “I know him by reputation,” he explains. “He’s quite famous on the internet. He created a blog solely to comment on Coil’s article – ‘ _10 ways to not become a famous photographer’_. Number 10 was: ‘Be an asshole’. L took it personally, of course”.

It’s tempting to refer to him as ‘Lawli’. He’s not supposed to have known him as a moody teenager, so Beyond resists uttering the half-condescending, half-affectionate nickname.

He has divulged too much information already. Impatience has always been Beyond’s greatest enemy. It’s tedious to plan and prepare when you’re eager to observe the results. There is always a sharp comment on the tip of his tongue – it’s hard to resist being witty, sometimes. Especially when Naomi isn’t there to squeeze his wrist if he goes too far.

Beyond and Light observe each other in an awkward silence for a moment, until a high-pitched voice provides Beyond with the perfect excuse to finally avert Yagami’s unsettling gaze.

“I tell you, it’s him. Look at his eyes!”

It comes from a couple of students sat at a neighbouring table. Light studies them quietly, his expression absent, as if recalling a distasteful memory. It’s not the confident ones who usually worry they’re being laughed at. One of the students, a young man with a smirk, points in their direction.

“It’s not me, I swear. I’m not famous,” Beyond says automatically, “Perhaps they’re just commenting on your divine beauty.”

The students are whispering now, and keep looking over their shoulders. They’re debating their next move, apparently. It lasts a few seconds until they finally leave the library, with one last glance casted at Light Yagami.

His eyes flit from them to the object they left at their seats. “They were reading something.”

In a heartbeat, he darts to their table and grabs the abandoned newspaper. Of course, it’s _Artsy-tic_ , the newspaper published by the Wammy’s Institute. The opinions on its actual quality are divided, but every Wammy’s student has mocked its name at some point. In truth, Beyond hasn’t touched it since he left the Institute, save for the past issues he keeps in his drawer – he even saved them from the fire that destroyed his apartment.

Yagami’s hands clasp the paper. “It’s not – it’s impossible. He wouldn’t dare.” he mutters, his voice shaking slightly – music, to L’s ears, surely.

“Before you draw the wrong conclusion, I must inform you that I have been the object of slender by that newspaper in the past. Don’t take it too seriously.”

Damn Wammy’s students and their obsession with gossips. How is he supposed to quiet Yagami now? He is freaking out.

“What sort of trap is this? Are you setting me up?” Light snaps, “Did you tell them to leave the newspaper so I would read it before you?” He stuffs his textbooks in his designer bag.

“I have nothing to say for my defense, to be honest. I must look pretty suspicious,” Beyond concedes.

“You’re a friend of Lawliet, aren’t you? I should have known better.”  With that, Light storms out, leaving only the scent of cologne behind.

It doesn’t take long for Beyond to find another issue of _Artsy-tic_. He stumbles upon L’s interview, recognizes his tone at once. He tends to say “death”, “light” and “ambiguous” a lot.

Although, this time, he favoured “sex”, “Light” and “inspiration” the most.

“So you’ve just gotten a taste of L’s methods, Yagami.” Beyond whispers. Light Yagami is not the only one inhabiting L. Lawliet. Art has its place within him. And L would sacrifice everything in its name.

There is a sentence that says it all: “Of course, I sleep with my muse. You must understand – a muse has to renounce a part of their privacy. Why? For they've become a part of me, of course. And it’s not negotiable. It’s forever.”


	6. Style

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enfin, as we say in France. I am ever grateful for your kind comments. Seriously. Even the shortest ones. It's an honour and a pleasure to read them. Be assured they're important to me :)  
> The story is getting more complex. Yay (?)  
> If you enjoy music, please do listen to this fanmix (thank you again!) : http://capitaineblackbird.tumblr.com/post/117105684716/misoramassacres-he-is-facing-yagami-for-the

* * *

_  
You can feel the whole world and still feel lost in it. So many people are in pain - no matter how smart or accomplished - they cry, they yearn, they hurt … We all want the same things: comfort, love, and a peaceful heart_

**_Mitch Albom_ **

* * *

 

## L

 

In the days that follow the fateful issue of Artsy-tic, L is plagued by nightmares. It would be convenient to pin them down on Light, but even he can’t summon old ghosts, have a buried past crawl out of its grave.

The smell that jolts L awake follows him all day; he senses its presence, viscid as the petrol engulfing unfortunate sea birds after an oil spill. It’s a terrible smell, pleasant and deceitfully painless at first. His body stiffen in anticipation, because the pain will come. Waiting for it, here is the torture. An imaginary blade slowly brushes his stomach, then, all at once pierces and sinks it. Who hates the smell of a garden? L does, because to him it smells of death.   

Some childish part of him believes nightmares are secret codes sent by Anna. Nonsense. She only reached out to them through music, a whole other sort of cypher. And even if death distorted messages from the departed, turning them into nightmares, it’s Beyond she would haunt. She would choose him, rightfully so.  

L disentangles himself from the covers and slips away to the living room. He’s lucky – the moon has not yet vanished. His body leads him to the spot where Light stood as he offered himself to L’s lens for the first time. His camera holding him still.

He wonders if Light is sleeping, when he should be worrying about other people.

He is getting better at caring about others. He has someone to thank for it, and it’s a name fit for an angel that crosses his mind. Mihael is starting to look like Anna before she chose to burn out, slowly like a dying candle. They have nothing in common, save for the man that oriented their visions. His stomach twists uncomfortably.

People commit suicide because of themselves, Mr Wammy had affirmed at Anna’s funeral, ever elegant in his coal black suit.

Still. He must take responsibility for his carelessness. It starts by trusting only a handful of people. His talent built a tower. He locks himself in it and triumphs in silence. Brilliance is a grace that fastens in the light, as Anna used to say. May he never forget that.

He has his phone out in a heartbeat. Then, there is a voice, as cutting as a nylon rope.

“You can’t call me at 3 am, L. Not anymore” Mihael says. L hears him flipping through the pages of a book.

So he hasn’t woken him up. A half-smile surfaces on L’s lips. “I had to hear your voice. I apologise.”

Silence takes over until Mihael musters up the courage to ask: “It’s the anniversary of Anna’s death, isn’t it? Not the other thing?”

“I’m not sure what that ‘other thing’ is to be honest.”

“Yagami. The inter-school fashion show?” Mihael responds at once. “It’s impossible, you can’t have _missed_ that.”

L flings himself into a couch, heart galloping furiously against his chest. “I haven’t been in the Institute for two weeks. But I have seen…Yagami last Thursday and he…” he trails off, and his free hand trembles a little as he reaches for a sweet.

“ _Of course_ he didn’t tell you. It’s his style, his personal concept of a vengeance. Still, you didn’t think he would forgive your trashy interview that easily.”

“Well, he seemed to have understood I meant no harm. He acted like it, at least. What did he do?”

“He is working for the Institute, as our representative for the Fashion Show. You know, that competition we haven’t won since your promotion graduated.”

L shakes his head. “That’s completely absurd. Wammy should have told me about it. I’ll be at the institute tomorrow, see this for myself. Thank you.”

He throws his phone away and curls in on himself at the edge of the couch.

A paradox: he wants to trust the one that cannot ever be trusted. Better, even. He loathes lies and adores the man who wields them best. His hands curl into fists. Eyes flick in memory to the last time Light came to the studio. He had tugged his hand fondly through L’s hair and claimed he loved that it’s slightly curly.

“I have made peace with the interview. You could have done worse,” he had said wryly and accepted L’s apology. He was all but charm and low-key violence, that night. He had every right to.

In the bathroom of the studio, Light’s eyes had met the portrait occupying the space left by the missing mirror. He observed light and shadow dance across the feminine features of the model. She held the photographer’s gaze with a sort of conniving defiance. _If the body is a poster for the soul, she must resemble me,_ L could hear him muse inwardly. Light probably pictured the photographer’s eyes, wide in awe, behind the camera. He wanted to do better than her, it was etched on his face.

L had curled an arm around his waist. “Goodnight Moon. It’s for her I sang, that night. That was a favourite of hers,” he whispered.

Light stiffened at the remark. “Well, luckily your song touched me. And I am grateful to her for that.” There was a somber light in his eyes that might have been resentment.

L finds some form of consolation in thinking that Light is making a terrible mistake.

 

 

## LIGHT

 

His heels click across the marble floor. They’re Gucci and too noisy for his taste. A gift of gratitude, the card sent by the Wammy’s Institute declared. His vest is a gift as well. He only owns his Miyake shirt and the ambitions that come with it. The first time he passed the imposing wooden doors of the Institute, his clothes were as pallid as his mood. His face had not yet graced the cover of any magazine. Something has changed for good. Finally.

He recalls his father’s voice, ever stern, as he reflected on fear. As most courageous souls, he felt qualified to define fear even if this overpowering feeling rarely seized him. Light is familiar with fear and reacts passionately to it. By exposing him, L intended to trigger a certain sort of rage Light never indulges in. He has to live with the consequences. Unwilling to halt their partnership and all the benefits of it, Light merely brandishes a mirror before L, and in that mirror lies a reflection of his own cruelty.

It’s enough.

He passes a poster advertising the last issue of Artsy-tic. His eyes barely skim the surface, a smirk drifting on his lips.

“A NEW MUSE FOR THE WAMMY’S INSTITUTE: PRODIGY YAGAMI WILL REPRESENTS THE WAI AT THE ANNUAL INTER-SCHOOL RUNWAY” declaims the headline.

L’s interview has been printed, shared, pinned on the board at the Wammy’s Art Institute. Light expects it will be covered and forgotten soon.

They all make way for him, the one who, by chance or by design, seduced L. Lawliet, then outwitted him.

He catches sight of Mihael the moment he is through the door of the atrium. He places himself a far from him and studies his attire at lengths. He delights in observing whilst remaining perfectly unseen. The atrium is perhaps the vastest room of the institute. It has high ceilings and benefits from an exceptional brightness. Light takes a mental picture of every single marble sculpture. He intends to compare them this magnificence to the director’s office he is supposed to be heading up to in an hour.

Mihael makes noises like he is frustrated by his friend. Said friend seems somewhat distraught and rocks on the balls of his feet in unease. Light hears the name Mail and feels instantly better about his own name.

Knowing in part that he has virtually no reason to disturb Mihael, Light considers threading back to the gardens to await his meeting.

Then, for once, the observed detects the observant. Mihael casts a nasty look at him and smacks his lips. He closes the space between them.

“What do you want, Yagami?” he greets him.

Light turns to Mail. “Would you go elsewhere, please? I have to talk to Mihael,” he asks. Upon Mail’s incredulity, Lights shoos him out of the way. “Shh. Go somewhere.”

Mihael places a firm hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I got this.” The young man shuffles away and Light feels relieved not to have to endure the sight of his god-awful sweater any longer.

“Is he a student here?” he queries with a lackluster smile.

Mihael folds his arms. “No. He wouldn’t be part of the fashion department anyway. He’s not interested in high fashion at all.”

“You two have a common point then,” says Light, dropping his gaze on Mihael’s crop top and belly button piercing.

He hears Mihael gritting his teeth. “You sure look tense. Haven't you taken your pills? What are you doing here, Mr Prodigy?”

“Why, I work here of course. You’ve surely seen the posters.”

“Oh yeah. You’re – how do the fashion students say?” says Mihael, feigning ignorance. “The new mascot.”

“I’m much more than that. If they don’t know it yet, I will teach them,” Light whips back, voice turning cold.

“So you’ve dropped law school then. What does daddy think about it?”

“Don’t mention my father,” orders Light.

“I don’t know much about daddies but I reckon they’re not usually happy when their sons drop off law school to seduce some eccentric photographer.”

The tension fades at that and Light allows himself a little laugh. “You believe I’m here for L? I didn’t do it for L at all. I haven’t seen him in a week. You don’t have to worry. There will never be anything…substantial between us.”

“I saw a lot of substance that time at the Jaberwock. I don’t worry about it, though. It can’t last.”

“Envy is the ugliest sin. Try pride,” Light suggests, his lips primed.

“Just don’t say you’re not here for L. You’ve been looking over your shoulder the whole conversation. It has everything to do with him. I don’t really get why you’re so eager to set him off, though. I wouldn’t want him as an enemy.”

“He will always be an enemy…of sorts. But I don’t want to turn him against me. I want to teach him a lesson. Have a nice day.”

He turns on his heels, leaving Mihael slightly unsettled.

In the heart of the institute, there is a courtyard that reminds Light of the queen’s garden in Alice in Wonderland. He relishes the grace of a beautiful garden. It can be wild or arranged, regimented lines of bushes and carnivals of flourishing roses. Light sits on the stone rim of a fountain. A shaft of light breaks through the clouds, turning insipid water into a translucent light woven fabric. He observes the shimmers in silence, savouring the sharp smell of roses filling the gardens with vernal fragrances. He does not intend to linger but the calm here is spellbinding. Deathlike, in the good sense of the term. It’s better than sleeping, as you are nothing when you sleep but everything in the contemplation of the living world. Light half wishes he could love the universe more. Only the calm water bothers him. At least it's transluscent and nothing is hiding in the depths.

L catches him in the midst of a daydream, dressed all elegantly in black.

“How dare you, Yagami?” He has audacity of jolting Light out of his thoughts. This is a slight punishable by disdain.

Light shoots him a venomous look. “Grace the floor of this splendid Institution? Do you own it too? Like your models? The pretty little birds who sing for you?” he asks calmly.

“They are not you. I don’t want to own you. I don’t have to. _You came to me_.”

“I never expected you to be so vulgar. Putting me on display like this, that is unacceptable.” He pauses. “You’re not some paparazzo. You don’t get to play with me,” he says, his voice falling lower.

“Everyone plays a game in life, Yagami. But I never meant to hurt you.”

“It’s worse then. You thought I would be flattered. I’m not under your spell, Mister Lawliet. It’s your art I admire and now I can be certain I’m not a fan of the man behind the pictures.”

“I don’t need a fan. You don’t need an admirer. I get that.”

“You don’t get to tell me what I need.” Light snaps, scarcely above a whisper.

“I do, because it’s the same thing as me. _Company_.” L closes the space between them. “It’s rare, you know? Good company. I said I’d make it work. Let me try again.”

L trails his hand from Light’s shoulder to his neck.

“You don’t get it, do you? I haven’t escaped you. I’ll pose for you, once or twice maybe. That’s it. I work for this fine Institute now, and you’re a bonus.”

“The fashion show is not a job. It will be over in September, and after that you’ll be all alone again,” L warns him. He’s right, Light can sense it.

“I intend to bring victory to this school. They’ll owe me, more than they owe you. What did you do for them after you left? Nothing. Gratitude takes you places, Lawliet. You have no idea how far people can go when they’re in debt. Perhaps it’s you who will be all alone in the end.”

“I sold a picture 500 dollars to an American today. I don’t need you to be successful.”

“Don’t you see? The photographs of me, oh they’ll make you rich. I hope you’re a good saver, because you will never sell anything again after that. That’s the curse, you see? When you’ve reached the pinnacle of your art. I will walk out, and everything you’ll produce after me is bound to disappoint. The lightning will be perfect, and the model pretty, and the colours pleasant. But they just won’t stand the comparison with mine.”

L brings himself in his photographs of Light Yagami; he bleeds on them, abundantly, like never before. There is no room for the viewer, and that is precisely the revolution they will bring about.

“Coil is directing the fashion show,” L declares softly, “You’ll work for the both of us. And the final choice will be yours.”

Light is taken aback for a second, then says: “I accept this compromise.”

L offers to spend the night with him. A thought strikes Light that this is a test of wits. His elegant, distant, refined persona requires, of course, that he declines the invitation.

He accepts, against all odds.

That night, L lunges at him as soon as the door closes. He smells of the chemicals he uses to tame the light in his darkroom. This artificial fragrance works on Light like a key in a lock. It reminds him L’s art and its wonders.  They kiss, they part, they kiss again and it’s better each time. At some point, L glances quickly round, his piercing eyes darting to the last photographs he pinned up on the wall nearby. He is considering keeping the photographs here, Light deduces, he is falling for the timeworn idea that beauty needs protection. These photographs reveal the truth about Light Yagami. They should be exposed, if only to unsettle the audience.

They reveal him, yes. But who will understand them? L’s art has always bordered on the divine, but now, it’s simply out of reach and here to be admired, felt, remembered.

Light feels he should return the favour.

“I have four secrets. I decided I would only trust you with two of them.”

“How will you choose?” L asks, attention shifting to the buttons of Light’s shirt. He parts the silk hastily, as per usual.

“That’s the amusing part.” Light says and places both hands around L’s waist. “ _You_ get to choose.”

He explains the rules of the game as he traces absent patterns on his lover’s chest. He will drop three words in L’s ear and beneath each words lies a secret. It all comes down to choosing the right words. One of these secrets can change a life, another will draw a smile out of the gloomiest artist Light knows.

“Do you still want to play?” Light says in a lilt of a voice. His body trembles slightly against L’s – he truly expects L to choose the right words. Then again the only games worth playing are those with high stakes. L nods, and lets himself fall on the bed. “Alright.”

“Here are the words. Boyfriend. Water.” He pauses as L hooks a leg around his thigh, urging him on the bed. He positions himself on top of L and goes on: “Family, and You.”

“I should make you pose in a period costume. You’d be some kind of emperor,” says L in a raspy voice.

“Choose two words, _darling_.” Light demands, sounding slightly threatening. “Or I won’t be posing for long.”

L plants a kiss on his neck. “Boyfriend, because I get jealous.” He smiles a toothy smile and Light feels impatient. L murmurs the second word against his over-sensitized skin. “Family. If I have to choose, I can’t overlook that one. It’s my duty as an orphan,” L slumps back against the pillows. “When do I get my prizes?”

“In my own good time,” Light says in a breath.

 

## BEYOND

 

Yagami is highly intelligent. That much is true. The malice in his plan has been to humanize L before the eyes of the Wammy’s students. He is not in disgrace, but he has been casted away as a punishment for his insolence. Presently, L poses as a martyr, wilted in his chair, paying the stage of the Jaberwock a languid attention.

Director Ruvie elected the pub as the perfect place to officially herald the model for the fashion show.

Yagami parades the stage, his natural elegance magnified by the clever lighting. As a person, he might be a disaster - Beyond has not decided yet. As an object of study, he is fascinating. Defining the limits of Yagami’s power is tricky. He wields it quietly, but it’s an allure. Beyond narrows his eyes. Yagami has his hands clasped tight around the microphone. He could strangle it. Nonviolent power is never effortless.

Beyond is starting to feel dishonored himself. He can handle being surrounded by success – Anna was nothing short of a genius, even if she claimed she owed L her talent, a lie L had not been adamant to deny. However, success, when handled by the wrong people, is a sultry perfume. Gifted souls will smother their entourage in it. In spite of his apparent arrogance, L is reserved about his art. On the rare occasions he expresses his views on photography, he is kindly asked to rephrase his whole intervention and usually ends up sighing in frustration. He has few real enemies, because his talent simply cannot be matched. Conversely, Yagami wears his success like a crown. It’s awe-inspiring, blinding, like a diamond. But even diamonds can be scratched.

Beyond shakes his head. It’s no good to dwell on Yagami. He is an obsession of L’s. A subplot in his personal story.

“Our bodies are possessed by a force greater than us," Yagami declares from up above, on the stage. “They can turn to be terrifying weapons or crafted into works of art. Sometimes, they are seized, taken away from us, by abusers and feelings. In all bodies, there is an invincible light. May my light shine bright for you. May it bring you the victory you so rightfully deserve.”

A bow and the spell is casted. The Jaberwock rings with both polite and wild applause. L’s fingers drum the table, as they always do when they’re itching for a camera. _Kafka was right then_ , Beyond thinks, _we photograph those we want to exorcise out of our minds._ And those we long to turn immortal. A photograph never dies, L often says, the model is anesthetized forever on paper. He ought to be careful. It might prove dangerous to reproduce Light Yagami to infinity. To offer him that kind of absolute power.

Moments after, Light lays his eyes on them, smiles a smile that is neither friendly nor hostile. He places a hand on Coil’s shoulder, silencing him in the middle of his sentence. The next second, he has made his way to their table.

“I would have enjoyed the discourse, had I been on that stage instead of Coil,” L says, and a wider smile grows on Light’s face. He is insolently relishing what he sees as a feat.

“Don’t look so grim,” he says softly to L, “You were here on the stage with me. My good luck charm.” He slips out two photographs that he flaunts before him.

There is a smatter of amiable applause and all heads crane to the stage once again, waiting for Director Ruvie to talk. Light takes advantage of that, as perceptive as a photographer when it comes to seize an instant. He whispers a handful of words against L’s skin.

Then, he turns to Beyond. “I heard your name quite a few times, I think they want you as the make-up artist in charge.” He has the audacity to wink at L.

Their conversations must always play out like this – arrows and daggers flung at each other, a tension that rises with a smile and fades in a long-awaited touch.

Beyond folds forward, softly inhaling the marine fragrances Yagami leaves behind him. It’s as soft as the lemon cologne he cherished in his childhood. It reminds him of the home he never knew, of a Turkish mother plagued with nostalgia, longing for the sea she left behind. She never grew out of it.

A soothing memory flickers in the back of Beyond’s mind and he feels relieved at least – his opinion on Yagami softens a little.

“Would you be mad at me if I accepted the offer?” Beyond hears himself ask. He is slightly irritated by his own fragility. What next? Asking L the permission to breathe?

“I am not your mother, B. You do what you have to do.” L answers, and takes a swallow of his cognac. He is visibly struggling to drag his attention from Yagami, who is threading his way back to the bar.

“You’re a philosopher,” L says softly, eyes fixed unblinking on Yagami, “Tell me, is the concept of fate an absurdity? I don’t mean fortune tellers and palm reading. But is it reasonable to believe some paths are intertwined?”

“The Moira of the ancients could hinder even the wills of Gods,” Beyond answers pensively, “Terrible things happened to those who outwitted their fates.” 

“If it’s a battle I am bound to lose, I might as well love my fate…” L muses, “It’s one of those concepts that get terrifying or comforting in turn, depending on the situation.”

“Could be the other way around though. You two, simply by bursting in each other’s designated fates, you bent destiny. Think about it like this.”

That could be it. Perhaps L was not _supposed_ to meet Yagami. He only came to L to retrieve a power he had lost in Japan. Perhaps he should have stayed home.

“I like that. I’d rather we fool the Gods than play their games.” L examines his glass in silence.

Yagami and L both have the same unhuman quality. They are the stuff god-killers are made of, a writer would say. Powerful, temperamental, lonely. There is a subtlety, though. L latches on to reality, however cruel. He never kids himself into believing he can be loved. Yagami, however, is deceptive like a dream. Everything is possible, in a dream. In a dream, L could subdue even the midnight moon, who can reassure a man or enchant him. Luckily, L is starting to fear the moon. It’s a good decision, to be wary of the moody star.

But here lies the danger: L never believed Yagami’s honeyed words, but he let himself be possessed by them.

For a moment, Beyond is on the verge of comforting L. Then he remembers the terror in Yagami’s eyes, as he fiddled through L’s interview. They are both men of power. Scratch the surface and they’re the same. It’s a magic trick, really. A serpentine prince and a wicked king – and the courts they can’t help but manipulate.

“He came to me. I did not choose him. He was unleashed upon me,” L says at once.

He is trying to reassure himself, Beyond supposes. Still, it’s not in his nature to make exuses. “Don’t be like that. Don’t latch on the fortune teller because you’re unsatisfied with the card you drew. You chose to play. You could have closed the door the second you realized he was everything you ever feared. Or _wanted_ , but it’s all the same to you, I guess.”

“I need to understand him. But if I do he will run. And even if he stays, it won’t be the same, he will be plain and predictable like the others.”

“I will choose not to take that as an insult.”

“I never slept with you, B,” L tells him, a hint of sincere concern in his voice.

 “I’m really not your style. I’m too sane for you.”

“Yagami can’t be as crazy as you say. He worked for the police.”

“And ran away,” Beyond takes a sip of his drink, grimaces at the taste. “God knows what he has done.”

L bristles at that. “Cowardice doesn’t make a murderer.”

“I never mentioned a murder, but it’s interesting that you bring it up.”

“Don’t psychoanalyze me, I guarantee you will run scared.”

“I should try on my neighbour Yagami then.”

“Now that he discovered you know me, he won’t trust you. I told him the truth, you know. That I wanted to keep an eye on him. I tried to make amends. I thought it would reassure him. But he lies, and he lies again.”

“Perhaps that’s just how he communicates,” Beyond offers with a childish smile. “Cats meow, Dogs bark, Mihael grunts, you rant and Yagami lies.”

“He will never feel safe. I’m just not capable of protecting anyone.”

“He doesn’t need to be _protected_ , L,” Beyond opposes, his amusement receding.

“I have the feeling he does but will never admit it,” L’s eyes glint with something akin to sorrow. “I want to slap him when he does that; pretend he is perfectly fine. There is something Coil used to say when he was my teacher that just stayed with me. He said a photographer can be attracted to the young and beautiful as a man, but not as an artist because photographers are drawn to faces that lived. Why he made the ridiculous assumption that the young and beautiful can’t have lived already, I don’t even want to know. It stayed with me as the most idiotic statement about my art I ever heard. Light has suffered, I know that. But I can’t dig any further or he will escape.”

Beyond reclines in his chair. “You have to figure out what his style is.”

“His style?”

“His _uniqueness_ , Lawli! For you, it's audacity. Courage. As for me, I am wild. What’s his?”

“Secrets,” L sighs.

“And what do you want from him, exactly?”

A beat, then, softly: “Understand him, only in part. Reveal him in his beauty and glory. Spend some time in his company…Possess him, but never as a whole.”

Beyond contemplates L’s words, eyebrow creased in concentration. You ruin a masterpiece by understanding it. Making sense of the ineffable is a sin to any artist. In Yagami’s case, however, it might be lifesaving to expose him. He is a human being, not a work of art.

Of course, some people can only exist in denial of their humanity. But why?

“Talk about obsession,” is all Beyond lets himself voice aloud.

“I’m not obsessed if I can control it,” L counters, vexed.

“Can you? Taking his picture doesn’t count.”

“Just as much as he can.”

“I will not let you control me, I am an independent model, Mister Lawliet,” Beyond replies in a perfect rendition of Light’s voice. “But _please_ make me your muse forever.”

A faint smile finally surfaces on L’s lips.

By the time Director Ruvie’s discourse finally dithers to a finish, Beyond feels thirsty. He jolts up to his feet with the firm intention of fetching a pint at the bar. L demands a cocktail, in spite of his disdain for the colourful concoctions.

“Naomi didn’t come?” the barmaid asks. She has plaited ash blond hair and the skilled hands of a painter. Linda, her name is, and she studies at the Institute during the day. A sign that you go to the pub too often is knowing the names and occupation of the staff.

“She’s not always with me, you know? She has a real job, unlike you all,” Beyond says petulantly.

Linda snorts, takes his order. “Are you two dating?”

“I’m outraged. Naomi doesn’t date,” Beyond counters with a crooked smile. “She thinks the whole concept is outdated and mainstream.”

“Lawliet used to say that,” Linda retorts, wearing a playful expression. She looks to the side, gesturing towards Yagami. He has retreated to a quiet corner where he is nervously fiddling with his phone. “And here he comes. It’s quite the revolution, this Japanese model who poses for Lawliet and collaborates with Coil.”

Beyond grabs hold of the drinks and considers eavesdropping on Yagami’s conversation, just like that. He’s done reprehensible things quite often, so a little spying won’t aggravate his case. He heaves a deep sigh and hopes he won’t live to regret it. He slides in a cupboard situated at a convenient distance from Yagami, clutching the glasses against his chest.

It’s mildly dark, but he can distinguish the photographs haphazardly lined up on the wall before him. The Jaberwock has a tradition of exposing the photographs, paintings and other works of art of the Wammy’s students. Some of the ancient ones have been clustered here, apparently.

He tries to avoid the familiar looks and focuses on the cadence of Yagami’s voice and the sound of his steps as he paces the floor.

“I was in a dark place. I understood something recently - that you can’t keep on racing towards the exit. It’s nothing more than an exit, some gaping space waiting to swallow you whole. I had to find a purpose, something I believed in. It had to be something special, you know me.”

His voice is clear, but the lilt is twitchy.

“Fashion only cares about the future. This is why. There is no past here and I love it. It’s liberating.” A beat. Yagami halts his pacing.

“Sayu, I might not come back before a long time. You should come –“ He pauses, listens to her. “He has to understand. He is the one who advised me to leave. No, he did not exactly chase me away, I know. Listen, I have been trusted with a mission. The Wammy’s Art Institute, yes. They need me. How? Well, as a muse I guess. Don’t tell him everything, just what he needs to know. And nothing that might upset him, even though he is aware of it. That doesn’t mean he wants to hear it. Thank you. Yes I'll tell you if I work with her. See you soon.”

From where he stands, Beyond can’t see Yagami’s face. His well-oiled mind connects the dots and sort out all the information. He feels an unmitigated compassion towards Yagami, only because his words mirror Anna’s. She is sending a smile over to him, trapped in a photograph on the wall. Beyond considers stealing it for himself. He renounces.

 

 

##  **NAOMI**

 

The sky, as the sun reigns, is a wonder to her. She slips away to the rooftop of the station sometimes, just to admire its infinity. She is unused to the night sky. Yet, Naomi feels the strange loneliness of a satellite surrounded by brilliant stars. The satellite meanders in the dark infinite space, friendless, forgotten, save for the signals mother Earth sometimes sends over to him – but it’s always with some purpose, and never just to ensure the satellite is not tired of the emptiness, frightened by the blinding stars. The satellite may come home with the honours when it fulfills its mission.

She needs a mission but the superintendent has nothing to offer her.

“I wish we could see each other more often, Misora. You never have time for me,” Wedy reprimands her as they reach Tower Bridge.

They meet sometime in the wee hours of the morning. Within the hours where London is still beautiful.

“Don’t point the finger at me. We both have stressful jobs, let’s leave it at that,” Naomi whips back quietly.

Wedy gently touches her arm. She’s wearing her trademark leather gloves. “Don’t tell me you miss him? I refuse to be second after Penber.”

“Oh. I don’t anymore.” Naomi says, hands shoved deep in her pockets. “I met strange people. It keeps me busy.”

“You’ve been a friend of Lawliet for a couple of years, yeah? It’s not exactly recent.”

“I didn’t mean him. He’s not as strange as he seems, you know.”

“No but boy, he’s arrogant. He is too intense about everything, here is the problem. Perhaps that’s how you succeed. Quite the feat, anyway, Naomi. He never had any friend that was not an artist, to my knowledge. He’s wild.”

“I know wilder,” She pauses. Beyond has vulturine eyes that might be frightening in the dark, but they all focus on L’s somber allure. It is admittedly more remarkable.

“I hear Yagami is working with Coil,” Naomi tries.

“Yes! On top of posing for Lawliet! Now that’s a first. Lawliet hates Coil, it is known.”

The rising sun paints the sky a pallid red. It hits Naomi: she surrounds herself with artists and drinks their torment in timid sips. Such insipidity must cease. She asks the question that stings her lips.

“Did you know that Yagami used to work with the police, back in Japan?”

She lets Beyond’s words flow over her. Yagami is a mystery L wants to solve alone, he told her , then smiled and added: I don’t like watching on the sidelines, do you? She had nodded pensively.

Wedy stiffens strangely at the remark. “No. He never mentioned it.” She pauses. “Then again, he is rather reserved. He is Japanese, you should know. They’re private.”

Naomi feels a swell of pride in getting Wedy to confide in her. The American agent is not exactly the most tractable person Naomi knows. Back in high school, she pretended to be an undercover agent in jest. She even pulled a trick on their math teacher that resulted in her being violently expelled from class. At the time, Naomi admired her bravery. There was nothing particularly courageous in Wedy’s pranks, but she idolized a rule-breaker.

 “I can’t help but wonder, why abandon everything for high fashion?” Naomi insists. Yagami is a mystery and mysteries are what she unravels best. She can’t let go.

“You might not believe it, but there is nothing quite as addictive as a spotlight. I am better in the shadows, so I can’t testify to it. But I heard some end up forgetting there is such thing as natural lights.”

They fall quiet, making their way across Tower Bridge in silence. Halfway through the bridge, Wedy halts her walking.

Naomi comes to a stop as well and looks to her friend expectantly. She keeps silent, however, so as to get her to talk. Prompting her might incite Wedy to swallow back her remark. She has a sense of herself as a private detective of sorts. It brings her back to her youth, to the job of her dreams.

“You know, he has a strange dislike of paparazzi.”

Naomi lifts a shoulder. “Don’t we all?”

“Yeah but – now that you mention his past in the police force I can’t help but think of Ryûzaki. You probably never heard of him. He was a Wammy graduate, a photographer who strayed away. He became a paparazzi and some say he worked for private investigators.”

“What happened to him?”

Wedy drums her manicured fingers on the balustrade, and in a breath: “He died in Tokyo. Two years ago maybe. His friends claim he was investigating the National Police Agency.”

“And who are these friends?”

“Oh, let me think.” She sticks a cigarette into the side of her lips. Her face lights up and she utters the name: “Eraldo Coil.”

Naomi feigns mild interest for the revelation and pursues their discussion, all pseudo-casual.

When they finally part ways, her instinct is to rummage her pockets for her phone. She doesn’t bother with formalities.

“I think I know why Yagami left Japan,” she declares at once.

Over the phone, Beyond lets out a petulant laugh. “We make a terrific team. I found something too, partner.”


	7. Duets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. Wow. I am a bit confused by all this myself, but don't worry I have a plot! Enjoy. And as always, you have my warm, sweet thank youuuu for all the comments, kudos, remarks, messages on tumblr and general kindness. Thank you.

* * *

  
_My life_  
_has appeared unclothed in court,_  
_detail by detail, death-bone witness by death-bone witness, and I was ashamed of the verdict._  


 

**Anne Sexton**

* * *

## L

The most revolutionary thoughts strike at night, but they’ve always been inhabiting the mind, waiting for their moment, like an army of ambushed archers, shooting their arrows from the crown of high trees. 

L has formed a haunting idea of what his relation to Light Yagami should be. Haunting being the key word here. Once conceived, this sort of idea tend to linger in his mind, so much so that they can no longer be questioned.

And here is that idea: the key to understand Light is to illuminate every facet of him. 

He has been misguided by his desire to unravel an enigma when he should have resorted to his knowledge of photography.

Photographs are produced in the light, but developed in the dark. He will never understand Light by shoving him in front of a projector. Just because the model can stand undamaged in the brightest light doesn’t mean he cannot be blinded by it.

 _I have been selfish_ , L realises, dipping a print in fixing chemicals, _I thought of my camera as a weapon only to reassure myself._ He knows no fear, with his camera in hand.

He hangs the photographs to drain, closes the door gently behind him. The night fell while he was in the darkroom. He sits at the kitchen table and lets his look wander across the cityscape. His mind, however, is profoundly disinterested by the rare calmness of London. It latches on to the faintest sound in hope that Yagami comes uninvited once again.

He doesn’t. In gentle retaliation, L decides to surprise him the next morning. He steps out of the elevator into the last floor of the Institute, envisioning Light, elegant and bright and so talented. It’s a miracle he maintains a deadpan expression.

The Fashion Design students requisitioned the vastest amphitheatre and a little crowd of eager students is standing before the massive doors. Some desperately try to eavesdrop on the rehearsals. They dissolve into feverish whispering at the sight of L, regaining their composure.

“Mr Lawliet. I apologise, but Mr Coil told us we couldn’t watch the rehearsals,” a senior student informs him. His back is straight and his posture perfect, but his gaze dips to the ground in anxiety.

L doesn’t do anything to extinguish the tension. “Coil never said anything about graduates,” he says, scarcely above a whisper, and the senior student looks on the verge of turning tail and fleeing. “You should go now,” he advises the whole group, in a gentler tone of voice.

They hurry down the corridor in unison and L slides himself into the room, lithe and quick. The Fashion Design students, the model and their director are all too absorbed in some heated discussion to notice him.

All the projectors are aimed at the stage, bathing it in incomparable brightness. L is able to slither himself into the deserted audience without a fuss, entirely protected by the darkness. His eyes are immediately drawn to the most graceful silhouette of them all.

They dressed him in a vest of white, stitched in translucent cotton vertical stripes. L only notices it because Light moves so easily, almost freely, in it.

Coil is there too. Coil is a tall, muscular man, with handsome features that emphasise his shocking lack of charm. He oozes cheap cologne and even cheaper brandy.

"You have to obey me, Light," he has the nerve to tell his model, frowning.

Light stares at the director, drapes a scarf nervously around his neck. "I am not some child. You are supposed to respect me the most. I am your model."

"Hey, why don't we have a break?" a woman intervenes, seizing Coil's arm. L recognizes Wedy at once, perched on her noisy, stylish heels. Coil studies her for a moment, a strange gleam in his eyes. After a moment of strained silence, he shrugs and call a pause, gesturing the Fashion Design students to exit the stage. They oblige, looking defeated as their second morning of rehearsal draws to an inconclusive end. Wedy sets a comforting hand on Light’s shoulder and disappears backstage, fumbling in her designer bag for a cigarette.

Coil edges closer to Light, his step echoing off the deserted stage. “You think too highly of yourself. Just like him.”

“It has nothing to do with Lawliet. I know you resent him but whatever happened between you two is not my concern. Stay professional.” Light spits the words. Such a beautiful contrast to his soft, sweet voice.

L can tell the same thought seeps into Coil’s brain. He is on the verge of raising up to his feet, shouting at that poor excuse of a photographer. That would be deliciously dramatic. But L fancies himself a dignified man and refuses to make a fool of himself. Before Yagami, especially. He is so easily embarrassed. Still, there is a part of L that long to see him blushing furiously, so he waits until Coil leaves and slides his phone out of his pocket.

The text message he sends Light reads, rather enigmatically: “ _Roraito_.”

On the stage below, Light is drawn out of his reverie by his phone’s text alert pinging. He has his phone out in a heartbeat, and L catches the ghost of a smile on his face when he reads the name displayed on the screen.  

The smile melts in an exasperated sigh. L’s phone doesn’t make a sound as it delivers the response. “What.” The dichotomy between Light’s honeyed voice and the coldness of his texts is incredible.

L considers not revealing himself for a moment. He observes Light as he darts his eyes left, then right, then left again. So, he understood. L’s suspicions were accurate: Light has an astounding understanding of him. He’s perfectly conscious of his controlling tendencies.

“I love how you pronounce my name when I’m not here,” L says, leaping up from his seat. “ _Roraito_. It’s cute.”

Long-legged strides take him to the stage. Light observes him, hiding behind the usual mask of cold courtesy. Light carries this mask everywhere, not even when L silently ensures him he is not afraid of his shadows will he part with it. He has a good reason for that, surely.

“While we’re at it, I might as well raise all the embarrassing subjects,” Light declares, arms crossed over his chest. “You should let me use your first name outside the bedroom.”

 “You can,” L retorts, determined to see embarrassment branding Light’s cheeks.

“You said you only wanted to hear it while we have sex,” Light says in an undertone. The words do not fall the way he hoped and it shows.

L relishes the tension of their interaction and he is convinced Light cherish these moments as well, the moments where small measures of time contain thousands of words, gestures and touches.

“We’re not forced to have sex in the bedroom,” L murmurs, closing that impossible space between them.

L’s sulky voice manages to penetrate the armor of rehearsed expressions and studied gestures. He is not quite blushing, but he tugs awkwardly at his vest and clears his throat. It’s far more than Light is willing to show.

“How was the rehearsal?” L hears himself asking. He is a little too adamant to soothe Light’s embarrassment.

Light says the clothes remind him of a Demeulemeester collection, explains at lengths how it’s loose and lean and stylish at the same time, and there is a shiver in his voice that resembles passion. He is the only model in the world who can drag L into this world of appearances and subterfuges.

It’s as if Light reads his mind. “Why are you even asking? I thought you had no interest in fashion. You photograph the moon, and people with a story. Not clothes, not models. I thought you weren’t interested in it. That it was all a dream and you refused to sell dreams.”

“I have nothing personal against fashion. I just know it won’t like me. It just won’t. I will never attach myself to a brand or a designer. I am more attached to my models.”

Light Yagami can do it all; pose as a strange deity in a colourful fantasy à la Aldrige, endure Richardson’s voyeurism, defy the expert eye of Leibovitz. He doesn’t need Lawliet to succeed, but to exist. There is a cruelty inherent to the art of photography. It could crush him.

“I can see how it pains you to know I pose for others lenses,” Light snakes his arm around L’s waist.

“And yet, what can I do about it? You dropped law school for this,” L reminds him, and he senses Light’s body tensing against him. “You can’t refuse them all. I am not possessive enough to expect that of you,” L adds, with no sincerity whatsoever.

 

 

 

# MIHAEL

 

Mihael traces one last hesitant word on the back of the picture. A part of him feels guilty to be scribbling on one of L’s original photographs, but he forgot his notebook in the workshop and was struck by an idea. Words wither in the back of his mind; they blossom on the paper.

He turns the picture over, observes L’s mastering of the daylight in silent reverence. He hopes his words are worthy of the photograph. He has winded them in his whole being, as he always does. That means soiling L’s art would be a personal failure. A familiar anguish courses through Mihael’s veins that he ignores.

Sat by his side on the marble steps, Mail shoots him an inquiring look. Mihael is ashamed to worry his best friend. He swallows, in hope it will make him feel better.

"Laser tag after lunch?" Mail queries, after having weighted the risks of addressing a grumpy-looking Mihael.

Mihael’s first instinct is to decline the invitation. Then, in a flash of childish excitement, he is reminded of the relaxing virtues of laser tag. Ah, the joy of peaking through an observation point to taunt the stranger you just outwitted. Writing is a catharsis and so is laser tag. Of course, in his imagination, his enemy shrieks like Yagami. That’s a childish fantasy. In which universe would the mild-mannered, sophisticated model crouch and vault in fatigues?

Still, it’s a nice thought. There is a small smile on his face when he says: “I promised Near I’d watch him play Warhammer. He’s pretty good at this.”

Mail has the decency not mock his recent rapprochement with Near, only smiles. “That’s great, I will probably swing by –” he stops, his attention drawn to two silhouettes striding down the deserted hallway toward them.

Mihael drops his gaze to the photographs, unwilling to follow Mail’s look. “What? If it’s Yagami, tell him I will hold silent until he returns to hell where he comes from.”

“Is there an albino kid at the Institute too?” Mail asks. Mihael lifts his head, mumbles an undecided no I don’t think so. “It’s Nate. But who is that guy?” Mail says, half to himself.

Nate and his mysterious companion mince over to them. They walk at the same boring cadence and stand in front of the grand marble staircase. Mihael glances at the man. He looks a bit older than Nate, perhaps. Polite, handsome in a discreet fashion, with ravishing blue eyes and a perfectly ironed shirt. The very image of decency. By contrast, Mihael’s allure is that of a moody punk.

“Hey. Who are you?” he shoots at the young man, his voice lacking warmth.

“It’s Stephen. He helps me getting around campus now. And pretty much everywhere else,” Nate responds casually.

“You shouldn’t have come, I told you to wait for me at our place,” Mihael mumbles while Mail sends both Nate and Stephen a faint smile.

Nate shuffles an edge closer. “I have something to tell you. Stephen’s sister studies at the Institute. Linda. You know her?”

“If you want to ask her out why don’t you turn to her brother?” Mihael says wryly.

“It’s about L’s interview,” Nate explains, his confidence unshaken. “She is part of the editorial board of your school newspaper. It makes her very proud to have been able to interview L Lawliet.”

“Would have make me proud too, although I would have asked him about something else than bloody Yagami.” Mihael whips back. Mail feels obligated to laugh awkwardly in compassion. “Tell that to your sister next time, pretty boy.” Mihael turns to Stephen, glaring. Stephen’s lips part to respond but Near gestures him to keep silent.

“Here’s the thing. It wasn’t even their idea,” he says, the lilt of his voice slow as always. “They’re only students, and far too intimidated by Lawliet to call him to talk about his supposed muse.”

“Well, they _did_ interview him.”

“Yes but only because someone _assured_ them it was a good idea. They had the guarantee Lawliet would accept, and that the model in question wouldn’t cause trouble.”

Mihael’s eyes go round as the pit of his stomach begins a steady descent. “Nooooooo. No. I can’t _believe_ that. That bloody little -”

“Wait. You think Yagami wanted it to happen? But what does he get out of that?” Mail throws in, addressing Nate and Mihael in turn. “The whole school believes he sleeps with Lawliet. And he doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who would be proud of that.”

“The whole school _knows_ he sleeps with Lawliet,” Mihael grits out.

Nate lifts his head up to exchange a glance with Stephen who considers the whole scene with feigned interest. That’s how Mihael reads his blank expression, in any case. “I don’t care for Yagami’s shenanigans, believe me. That’s why I wanted your opinion, Mihael. I know you worry about L. Do you think Yagami has some kind of ulterior motive? Stephen thinks we may be too harsh on him.” Nate says carefully.

“What does he know about models and the destructive power of the fashion industry, Stephen? Aren’t you in robotics like Nate?” Mihael hisses. Mail sets a calming hand on his shoulder and Mihael remembers to breathe. It’s unfair to lash out on Stephen, as tempting as it might be. How self-sacrificing he must be, to promenade Nate around all day. Even out of sincere compassion for Nate’s condition, Mihael could never do that. He suffers from an unexpected pang of shame.

“I enjoy art as an amateur. I’m a scientist. The two aren’t mutually exclusive, ask Isaac Asimov,” Stephen says, and Mihael wonders if he intended to sound that pretentious. He gives him the benefit of the doubt.

Upon Mihael’s silence, Nate feels entitled to add: “As for Yagami, well he used the interview as an excuse to participate in the Fashion Show hasn’t he? Maybe he wanted to collaborate with both Lawliet and Coil and the only way to do that was by creating a situation where he’d be seen as rightful. Lawliet caved and accepted the compromise because he felt guilty to an extent, no? That’s what I told Stephen.”

Mihael leaps up to his feet, leaving Mail as the only one still sat on the steps. He doesn’t seem to mind too much. Standing up, Mihael is only scarcely taller than Nate. “You and Stephen have interesting conversation topics.”

“Yagami _is_ interesting. It’s like playing Alice Chess. Two chessboards. Two Yagamis, the liar and the honest,” Nate drawls, his gaze ever so distant. “Granted, I have yet to see the honest part of him. But it has to exist or he wouldn’t be a liar. It’s logical.”

Mihael heaves a deep, long sigh that silences Nate. “ _Anyway_. I think you’re right. He wanted Lawliet, he wanted the Fashion Show. He wanted it all, the genius photographer and the glory of the spotlights. And for that, he sacrificed a shred of his reputation, as he knew he could restore his pride in the end. That’s why he wants the Institute to win so badly. That’s my theory.” Mihael mumbles. They all stare at him expectantly, even Mail, cigarette hanging from his lower lip.

“But I won’t tell anything to L. And if I don’t, none of you are allowed to. I mean it. Do you know how he was when I met him? Miserable and desperate and suicidal...” he trails off. Mihael swallows and tries his voice again. “I’m terrified of seeing him like that again. That’s why I keep an eye on him. I watch him often. Do you know how many times a day he smiled before Yagami? He hid behind his camera. Now he lives his art fully, with passion and rage.”

He sighs, eyes closed. “I love him better now that he doesn’t need me. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t regret the times he called me at night, me, his young admirer, just to let my voice quiet him.”

He locks his eyes on Nate’s, sorrow clouding his vision. No matter how pathetic he looks, Nate will always hold his gaze.

“Yagami has the potential to ruin everything. It’s true. There is something morbid about him. If he fucks up, I’ll be the first one to point a finger at him. But I won’t be the villain in their story, I won’t sabotage their relationship without a good reason. L doesn’t deserve that.” Mihael declares, his voice firm.

Silence descends and Mihael loses himself in the contemplation of his hands.

“I just don’t understand. You were always there for him.”

There is a strange, resentful edge in Nate’s voice and Mihael can almost see Mail nod in agreement behind him. Even Stephen looks concerned.

It strikes Mihael that he doesn’t deserve all the compassion. He shoves his hands deep in the pockets of his leather jacket. “He’s always been clear with me, so don’t you give me that anxious look. I knew nothing would ever happen from the start. Just because I never stopped wishing for it doesn’t mean I didn’t know it was hopeless. I accepted that.” He pauses, bites his lower lip. “Yagami didn’t need to pose for him to help. All he did was existing in L’s life at some point in time. That’s frustrating, but I won’t complain. I will always be there, admiring the art. I won’t see Yagami on the pictures, I’ll see L’s muse, and you bet that even I will be entranced by it.”

He slides the photographs out of his pocket, studies them in absolute silence for a minute. “That’s just how talented he is.”

 

# NAOMI

 

Naomi appears in the backstage corridors uninvited, all in dark leather – it rarely occurs to her to plan her day in advance, and she felt the sudden urge to hear one of Beyond’s crazy theories about time and space, or anything else really. She came to that fancy institution almost mechanically after work. On her way to the third floor, where the fashion department resides, she crosses the nasty looks of the W.A.I students, on guard as if they could guess this place is unfamiliar to her. She knows Beyond worked with Yagami all day, so she heads for the dressing rooms.

She then catches sight of a lean, refined silhouette. He doesn’t even need to introduce himself, but he can’t possibly know that. She extends her hand to him, feeling awkward with her helmet under her arm.

“I am enchanted to meet you, Miss Misora,” Light recites in Japanese, and with a little bow. He doesn't take her hand. “I am Light Yagami. I was just leaving, so I won’t disturb you. Enjoy your evening.”

And with that, he disappears down the hallway, his step lighter than ever. She hasn’t even the chance to ask him how he recognized her.

It reminds her of all the mysteries surrounding Yagami. She confronted her conclusions with Beyond’s the day before, sat in front of a glass of wine each. Naomi admitted relishing the idea of a murder plot of some kind, eyes glinting with restrained excitement. Of course, she opposed Beyond’s theory that Light could have killed Ryûzaki. She told a story of betrayal, pining Light’s aversion for paparazzi on Ryûzaki but didn’t dare accuse the young man of murder. By contrast, Beyond entertained the mad thought that Yagami endeavoured to wash his hands clean in the glory of the spotlights. He claimed Ryûzaki was his lover, most likely. He shrugged and gave a sad little smile when Naomi asked if he knew Ryûzaki. He brushed it off, mumbling that he had been Anna’s mentor, that L and Beyond never quite warmed up to him.

They dropped the subject in favour of discussing Naomi’s most recent case and agreed that either way, they were probably both wrong.

She pushes the door open to face a rather satisfied-looking Beyond.

“Do you get along?” Naomi asks, with a swift motion of the hand toward the door. He understands she is alluding to Yagami.

“Not quite yet. I do his make-up for the show and I see him sometimes in the elevator of our building. He does smile at me,” Beyond responds with a malicious smile. “Do you think I could fall in love?”

Naomi places her helmet on a chair nearby and crosses her arms. She answers very seriously. “He is really not your type.”

“You’re right,” he sighs, and falls in his chair dramatically. “So, you believe I have a type?”

“You hate liars,” Naomi says, and glances about. Vintage posters and mirrors cover the walls of the dressing room. It’s exactly what you’d expect of such a room.

“Fair enough. I guess if someone has to be the liar in a relationship, it’s gotta be me. Although Lawliet claims he hates liars as well and here he is, sleeping with the mayor of dishonesty town.”

“He despises lies, not liars.” It’s only then that she notices the music. “Nice piece. Is it Vivaldi?”

“Hmm. Recording of me and Anna. Rather relaxing, don’t you think?”

Naomi feels a sudden pang of envy. She always wanted to learn the piano. “It’s beautiful. You never mentioned playing an instrument before. Not even at the support groups.” She looks to the side, recalling their first meeting. “I distinctively remember you answering no when I asked you if you played any instrument.”

“I lied, of course. Never tell a bunch of sad people that you’re a pianist, they will never leave you alone. Poor souls love an air of piano. I’m already the subject of L’s harassment. I can’t play the _Moonlight Sonata_ anymore, Naomi. I hear it my sleep.”

“You will never play a song for me, then?” she asks, sounding only half serious about the matter.

“You, I don’t mind.” He leaps from his chair, steps closer to her and offers his hand. Now used to the strange whims of artists, she gets he is offering a dance and takes his hand. “No one else. Not L and his dark piercing eyes, Yagami with the cold smile, Mihael and…fuck, especially not Mihael. He’s an amazing pianist. He’d find me pathetic.”

“Beyond, I’m an outsider. I won’t criticize,” she promises, her voice filled with concern.

He places a hand on her back. “You should. Your opinion is the most important of all.”

They immerse themselves into the spellbinding chorus of the piano and the violin.

“I wouldn’t mind being dragged into your world. Real life is tiring me out,” Naomi whispers after a moment of agreeable silence.

“At least you confront it. Throw us all in the dull realness of the universe, we won’t survive long.”

Whether it’s the praises, the applause or the light, they are all addicted to something. Art itself is never enough, it seems.

Beyond moves around experimentally, his movements supple and surprisingly elegant. For a fleeting instant, she finds him truly handsome.

“Who taught you to dance?” Naomi asks, focusing on her own moves.

“My mother. She claimed my father was an Austrian dancer she met in Munich. I didn’t believe my own mother, and it pained me.” A beat. He sighs. “So I indulged her, played with her fantasies. Even then, I’d favour a merciful lie over the truth.”

The music reaches a crescendo and fades away. They part rather reluctantly and Naomi’s eyes flick down in embarrassment. She is certain Beyond’s cheeks reddened slightly.

“How’s work?” he asks, flopping down into a worn-out sofa. His eyes catch sight of a black notebook and he bends forward to grab it.

“Acceptable. Thank you for asking.” Naomi says with a fond smile Beyond doesn’t see. The notebook has seized all his attention. “I do get bored at work sometimes. I’m always busy and I know I’m useful, but it lacks…energy? Passion? I guess I’m just getting used to your tempo. I forget how slow and steady real life can be.”

There is no coherency of time in the land of art. She falls down on the couch beside Beyond, who’s flipping nervously through the pages of the notebook.

“Whose notebook is that?” she ventures.

Beyond mumbles something approaching “I think Yagami left it here.”

She peers down at the ink-covered pages.

“It’s written all in code,” she says in a breath. “Show me.”

Beyond brandishes the notebook open before her eyes. “It’s not a code I’ve ever seen before.” Naomi declares after some time.

“I’d be surprised. It’s a language only three people in the world know of,” Beyond announces, placing the notebook carefully on his lap. His fingers softly brush the leathery cover.

“You’re part of them.”

“Along with Lawrence and Anna,” Beyond replies, his voice falling lower. Naomi lifts an eyebrow at the mention of L’s name.

“Do you recognise the handwriting?” she tries.

He turns to her, and he is close to tears. “Oh yes definitely. It’s Anna’s.”

 

# LIGHT

 

Most people have wounds or trauma for shadows, but his shadows are his mistakes. Mistakes should be corrected, not healed. He doesn’t need anyone to achieve that.

The instant he needs to correct lies in the back of his mind, precise and eternal as a photograph taken just at the right moment. And Coil is the first step of a carefully laid plan. L doesn’t belong in the picture; it’s better like this.

L has an instinctive understanding of him, though, and it’s enough for Light to forget to hide. He even allows himself a little laugh as L elaborates on his hatred of Coil. The photographer who scowls at his model for his own faults is a coward, he tells Light with passion in his eyes.

The lights at the sushi restaurant are too dim to reel L’s attention in. His eyes never drift away from Light; of course he notices his little smile and smiles in return.

“It's a tragedy that most models are air-headed, a fatality that most photographers are perverts," L says grimly. He is right, as evidenced by the irritating propensity of the other models to dissolve into giggles at Coil’s dubious jokes.

Light tells that to L, with a sorrowful smile the photographer does not yet know how to read. The truth is, the models annoy Light because he sees himself in them.

He is afraid that without the Law school, and the bright, parent-pleasing future, and the amazing marks, he will become like them. Fragile butterflies longing for the light. Empty shells.

He has the advantage with Coil, though. He knows him, identified him as the kind of man who tangle his legs on the coffee table. Impolite, intrusive, nosy. Nothing he can’t handle. He never confused the Wammy’s Art Institute with Wonderland anyway.

Or rather, he knows how easy it is to lose his way in Wonderland.

L and Light fall in a comfortable silence until the waiter decides to tear it apart. Light is tempted to send him away for a minute, before he recalls he is not some prince and can’t bend the world to his wills outside of a photography studio.

It’s L who orders, in his quiet, firm voice. What he might lack in beauty, authority perfectly makes up for it. Like a well-tailored suit on a mildly attractive man.

“Can I ask you something?” Light says with an elegant gesture of the hand to catch L’s full attention. L nods pensively.

“You’ve always struck me as a reserved person. Are you never afraid of people?” Light pauses, considers the effect of his words on L’s expression. “Of their intentions, I mean.”

“You want me to be as afraid of people as you. You’re wondering if you’re normal,” L says at once. “You’re probably not normal, Light. None of us are. Normalcy is a myth we have all endured for too long.”

“It’s – it’s not just that.” Light fumbles with words, an occurrence so rare it draws a faint smile from L. “I don’t want anyone spying of us. That’s all.”

“Light. My pictures are well-known, but no one knows a photographer’s face. Would you recognize La Chapelle or Leibovitz?”

“I might be recognized. You never know. I posed for Dazed,” Light retorts, darting his eyes to the waiter hovering about them.

 “You’re not that famous yet,” L says. He extends a comforting hand to cover Light’s trembling hand. A few heads crane in their direction. Light’s instinct is to throw L’s hand off his own, but he resists it. “No one will guess you’re a model if you walk normally and not like you’re parading the catwalk. Please relax.”

Light bristles at that. “I can never just relax, L. It’s not in my nature.”

“I am a lot of things, Light. But I’m not carefree. We’re _both_ worriers, and the world will never be a suitable place for us,” Light tries to counter but L speaks over him, his expression grave. “This is not your nature pulling tricks against you. This is the amphetamines speaking. You’re over-indulging. I know it’s pleasant to feel invincible but one day you’ll regret it.”

 _As if I didn’t know that already._ “Do you know why I started taking them?” Light says, aloud this time. “Not because of the pressure – I didn’t need them to stay at the top of my class. Not even to lose appetite, and trust me I never wanted to wake up, trembling and feeling frankly agitated in the middle of the night.” He pauses, considers his own words with a strange distance. “But I longed for organization, stability of mind.”

“You felt you had lost them,” L deduces correctly. Light wasn’t expecting any less of him, and yet he is taken back by this immediate demonstration of empathy.

“Oh, Light…” L’s voice trails off. It never does but Light loves it. “You lost something important.”

L smiles and Light’s heart seems to stop at once. It’s not a soothing, sweet feeling like in the books. He says something meaningless and bends his head so L doesn’t notice the grateful smile he is wearing.

“I will tell you a secret tonight. But you’ll take me to your flat. Not the studio," Light demands.

“I thought my extensive collection of erotic photographs unsettled you. At the studio, you can look at pictures of yourself, at least.”

Light rolls his eyes, even though L has a point. His taste in art raises all sorts of questions in Light’s well-organized mind. L is a man who considered his kitchen as a possible place to hang _Tomorrow Cruxifiction,_ that haunting photograph of a bare-skinned woman in a gasmask. He renounced, and opted for the bathroom instead.

“You will have to make me forget them,” Light concludes with feigned nonchalance.

Pragmatic, L begins by ordering a bottle of sake.

**

They shuffle back to L’s flat down the street, and at some point Light leans across L’s shoulder. A thought strikes him, clear and vivid, that he is not behaving like they expect him to. His hazy mind wonders who are ‘they’ and he presses a kiss on L’s pale, pale neck.

"You can’t even take a picture," Light taunts, moments later. He flings himself into the old-fashioned couch – it feels different from the leathery sofa L keeps in the photography studio. It’s made for cuddling, nightlong philosophical debates and commenting on terrible films.

"Please. I can photograph the moon whenever it suits me." L responds, grabbing one of the numerous cameras lined up on a bookshelf near him.

It doesn't occur to Light to remind L that he is, in fact, not the moon. L clicks the trigger, inches a bit closer. From there, it could go on a multiple of ways.

Light opts for the easy way. He tugs at L’s sleeve, soft and gentle at first. L ignores him, so he has to venture off-script.

The camera falls on ground in a crashing sound, but L is too distracted by Light’s long, open-mouthed kiss to care. Or that may just be a side-effect of being pinned down on the ground, as he does try to wriggle away from Light’s grasp, visibly alarmed at the sound.

“The camera is dead now,” Light says against L’s skin. Whether it’s the realisation that they broke one of his precious cameras or the low-key sadism in Light’s tone, something in his remark allows L to escape Light’s hesitant grip.

Light feels a hand curling around his thigh and a second later L is hefting him up, telling him nonsense about how shameful Light’s behaviour is. The model dares not look at the floor and he nestles against L’s chest, plants a kiss in the crook of his neck and thinks hazily that it’s plainly impossible that someone as fragile as L can lift him up.

Of course, L takes him to the bedroom.

He wonders if a musician would read the same song in the cadence of their breaths. They feel perfectly chorused. A terrifying thought strikes Light that he might be imagining it. What would that mean, then? Did he choose to endure Coil just to get back at L? The satisfaction he got from seducing L seems to slip away, and he freezes under the photographer’s skilled hands.

L senses that, and in the mist of pleasure, he finds the time to massage the tendons of Light’s neck. At some point, L even cups his head in his hands and asks him if he’s alright, anxiety filling his voice. All Light manages to say is how beautiful L’s hair look, falling in slight waves across his face. A grateful smile dance across L’s features and he kisses him. Light finds himself incapable of swallowing the shameful sounds hitching up into his throat with each perfectly cadenced thrust.

Minutes after they finally part, Light still feels L’s mouth pressing kisses, biting, licking him and he muses that bruises are already blossoming in the places that gave him so much pleasure.

“You didn’t tell me anything about Coil. How is the partnership going?” L points out, blinking at the ceiling.

Light keeps silent for a second, abashed by L’s nonchalance. It’s all so normal to him, that intensity, the screams and the passion.

"I don’t like him,” Light confesses in a small lilt of voice. He has his back to L so it’s easier to be sincere. “He was just plain rude with me, earlier. I thought you were bad-mannered, but you're royalty compared to him."

"I hope you told him a piece of your mind,” L says, a hint of sweet mockery in his tone.

A part of Light wants to turn over to face L, brush a strand of his coal dark hair off his face and gently whisper _fuck off_ to him. But Light specialises in abnegating parts of himself. "I made a fool of myself, actually. It wasn’t that bad, at first. Then, out of nowhere, I told him ‘I am not just marvelous at posing, Mr Coil, I can _impose_ as well.’”

L snorts. "This is a terrible joke. And that was not even supposed to be a joke, which makes it even worse."

"I don't need you to realise this,” Light hisses, hauling the covers over him. “I hate improvising."

“You’re only working with him to punish me. It’s not efficient if you suffer in the process, don’t you think?”

 _I’m not doing it for L._ All the confusion surges back into him. A sharp, long, nearly physical blow. Light raises up and drapes himself in one of L’s bathrobes – he possesses an astronomical number of them.

“It’s not all about you. He directs the Fashion Show. It’s the show I want. Not him. I need to win this,” Light says, averting L’s piercing gaze and admirably resisting the distraction offered by his lover’s unclothed body.

“You can win with me, Light. Do you realise how talented I am?  And if it's the glory you seek…well, I wasn’t half as famous before I met you. Something changed. The embarrassing, god-awful pseudo gothic photoshoots I did in my past are all over pinterest, and people actually write to me for the originals.” L insists, and Light stiffens under the sincerity of his words.

After a short-lived pause, L goes on, still sat on the bed. “I haven’t published my pictures of you but you’ve given me something every artist desperately needs. I have an image. A reputation. They don’t see the art, they don’t see a message or glimpses of my tragic past in my photographs. They see a personage. Their imagination fills the gaps.”

He jerks up to his feet, slides himself reluctantly into his clothes upon Light’s frown. “I love how deeply you understand me, but I don’t want anyone else to see me. On the contrary. As a personage, I can strive. I have never been so enthusiastic, so inspired. Your simple presence by my side had such a terrific effect on me. Imagine the wonders we could create together.” He moves closer to Light and takes his hand in his. “Well. You’ve seen my first picture of you.”

Strangely enough, Light can only bring the photographs of the moon to mind. Perhaps that what L was truly alluding to.

“Aren’t you afraid your art will be corrupted?” Light says, sounding too afraid.

“What does that mean? You haven’t changed me. I have always wanted this. I simply – Well, it was impossible before. I should try, at least. Don’t you think?”

“Don’t you fear the light? Eyes watching your every move, spotlights blinding you?” Light insists.

L used to say the light blinded him, that it highlighted to the world just how sick and desperate he was.

“I don’t want to be understood. But it’s not impossible to hide in the light, is it? You taught me that. Don’t you see?” L releases Light’s hand and clasps his shoulders instead. “Nobody sees you on the runway. That’s your secret. You hide, and still you shine, brighter than any other model. What is possible to you is within my reach. I want my art to matter and for that, I have to show a part of myself – the artist. The part I played, that broody, arrogant photographer…that wasn’t me. Not entirely.”

Plucking L’s ghastly hands off his shoulders, Light shakes his head. “You will suffer. Showing yourself makes the criticism personal.”

“Light, I am working on an exhibit that will only feature _one_ model,” L snaps. “I will be sharing you, and that will be much more painful that anything _they_ can say about my work. It’s an act of intimacy. I don’t fear that. At least I know it won’t hurt you.”

“You can’t promise me that.”

“There will always be dark places in my photographs. And you will hide pieces of you in them – mistakes, or regrets, everything you’re afraid of. I learnt my lesson. The interview, that was a terrible misstep.”

Light averts his gaze, keeps silent. Clouds slide in the sky, bathing the bedroom half in moonlight, half in artificial lights and Light is abruptly reminded of all the portraits hanging upon the walls. He feels the thoughts of the models through him. They’re bare-skinned, available to the eye, but they felt safe with their photographer.

“I will never expose you again, do you hear me?” L persists after some time, and his voice is like a dagger piercing Light’s chest. He feels guilty, all of a sudden. But that will be worth it – he will offer the Institute the first place, and he will be able to phone his father again.

L can have him then, and he might even tell him the truth behind the interview. Not now, he wouldn’t understand. Light would have to flee again.

Light falls down on the armchair behind him, his gaze focused a thousand miles away. He is strangely aware of how miserable he looks. That’s the moment his eyes start misting up that he wishes he wasn’t aware of anything at all.

“Light –," L comes across to him, so pale above his black sweater. He kneels down but doesn’t touch him. “You can tell me now.” He is alluding to the secrets, but secrets are all Light has. His body is a heavy lump around him, and he lost his perfect coherency of mind.

“I’m afraid, L. I was afraid in Tokyo, and the fear followed me here. I saw your pictures and thought they were terrifying. I blamed you. Every fiber of my being yearned to know the man who made me so afraid. It was horrible.” The words fly out of his mouth, and he finds a bizarre sort of comfort in that. 

The secrets have no guardian, without a body or a careful mind to watch them. He has to get a grip or they will bleed him dry.

“I’m afraid of Coil. I know he only wants to use me. After the rehearsal, I felt nauseous, and empty as if I had been squeezed out of myself.” The feeling that gripped at him then seizes him again. “And most of all, I’m afraid of the future. It was all written. Law school, the police, an office in a ministry, maybe. I would have been so happy then.”

L frowns at that, and moves a trembling hand onto Light’s lap. “You were meant for this, Light. I truly believe you are at right place. It all has been leading to this.”

“Dropping out of Law School? Modeling?” _Spending days looking for you?_ He thinks bitterly.

“Inspire me. I could have been something else, a musician or a detective. What the hell, even an attorney or a priest, although I don’t trust either of them. The core of the story is that you move me.” He pauses, allowing the words to sink in Light’s mind, and perhaps in his own mind as well. “I am a rational man, Light. But I can recognise fate when it stares right at me.”

“I shouldn’t be here,” Light persists. “You can sugar-coat that truth with beautiful concepts all you want – that’s the artist talking.”

“Don’t turn me into some lunatic with a thirst for romance, Light. Just don’t,” L hisses, his fingers clasping Light’s thigh. “You’re nervous, and scared, and exhausted because you can’t sleep anymore, can you? And I keep inviting you over, which isn’t exactly helping.”

The fondness in his voice helps Light ignore the allusion. He lifts his head and locks his eyes on L’s, his heart galloping madly in his chest. He half wishes it would stop on the spot. L moves his hand on his neck. Light heaves a deep, long, desperate sigh and falls silent for a minute. Then, he finds his voice again.

 “I need to tell you a secret. But before that, I need some tea.”

Surprise slowly registers on L’s face. He studies Light for some time, his brilliant mind obviously looking for an explanation.

Then he raises up to his feet and strides to the kitchen without a sound.

By the time L hands him a cup of green, salty tea, Light has formed the whole conversation in mind. He knows chances are high he will stray, because of L’s remarks, looks or gestures. Because L has turned his life into an unpredictable mess. But he has to try, at least. So he can live with himself.

He fixes his clouded gaze on the cup and barely pays attention to the ridiculous pattern. “Call me paranoid, but art has been pursuing me before you came into my life. Photography, in particular. There is something consuming about the eternity it promised, I suppose. That’s one way of escaping death. For me, it was. It’s true when I’m with you. It was true when I was with him.”

L has pulled out a chair. He studies Light in absolute, calm, reverent silence. Doesn’t move an inch at the mention of the other man, save for his hand, tightening slightly around his own cup of tea.

“He had a Japanese name, Ryûzaki. And his Japanese was flawless. But he came from England, never quite told me why he left. He missed his country, and he was always so sad. There was nothing in his life that moved him. Not even his art. He claimed he couldn’t take a decent picture anymore.” Light lifts his gaze from his cup onto the complex shapes formed by the smoke. “He became a paparazzo, betrayed his art and everything he had been taught. I caught him stalking my father once, that’s how I met him. There were nasty rumours going around at the time that the NPA was corrupted. All rubbish, of course.”

After a moment of strained silence, L’s voice tears the tense, heavy air between them, sharp as a dagger. “That’s your secret?”

“No. That’s not it. Today…I finally had empathy for him,” Light avows. “I betrayed my family, I am the one that ran away. I understand him. But it’s useless, because he doesn’t care. The minute I finally understand, I realise he is dead. It finally hits me.”

“I’m truly sorry," L declares, but he doesn’t sound surprised. He probably knew. Ryûzaki had mentioned a prestigious Art Institute in London, and his name appeared in the trophy room at the Institute. Of course L knew.

“Oh no. Don’t be. See, he died because of me,” Light manages, voice and hands shaking. “He drowned in his sorrows, and I couldn’t bring myself to care. Then he drowned in alcohol and I simply tossed his number away. One day, he really drowned and there wasn’t anything left of my affection for him. Or so I thought. Somehow, in the midst of his despair, he must have found a way to touch me. I resented him for that, forcing me to care from his cold grave. Alive and breathing, he meant nothing. As a ghost, he would never leave me. He was never this… real to me, before he died.”

L runs a hand through his unkempt hair, visibly shaken by Light’s confession. “It’s guilt. Light…from the sound of it, you had nothing to do with his suicide.”

“I know. But it doesn’t matter. He used to say art ruined his life, and he infected me with that thought, although our relationship had been superficial, and mostly platonic.”

Midnight discussions about the meaning of art, some compliments on his looks and the occasional _‘You’d make a great model_ ’, thrown at him as if it meant nothing.

“I dared not look at his pictures after he died, even the stupid paparazzo shots. He took his own life in a whim and poisoned me with his obsessions. He died, and the Prodigy was gone. I was soiled, lethargic, helpless. I craved anything that would bring me back again. I suppose it’s fate that made my friend offer me these pills. They’re illegal in Japan, you know? But I had no choice.” He takes a sip of his tea, and he swallows so fast that the hot liquid stings his throat.

The words fly out of his mouth even more easily after that he drinks all the tea, as if L had served him some concoction that melted his barrier of lies. “I went to parties again, I advised my father on five cases in a month. I was reborn, praised, loved like never before. I relished the feeling I had been waiting for all my life. The death of a pathetic man, and some pills, that’s all it took to be happy. And if it was all a performance, well. I didn’t care. The pills kept the illusion going. I’d swallow too many of them in hope the Prodigy would save me. He didn’t. I persisted, playing a part I didn’t believe in anymore.”

He senses the weight of L’s look, fiddles nervously with the empty cup.

“Don’t worry, I got what I deserved ultimately. You once said I tripped and fell. That was nice of you. I broke down would be more accurate. I guess you can only smother the truth for so long before it hits you in the face. So many things happened in my life at once, I couldn’t keep track. I reviewed another criminal case, in spite of my father’s advice. At Todaï I’d skulk down the hallways, persuaded they all whispered behind my back. I was handed a B+ and I smashed a mirror in the toilets.”

He recalls a rainy day in particular: he had been convinced every passing stranger was staring at him from beneath the colourful umbrellas.

Finally, L’s voice rings clear as a bell. “So you left.”

“Without even a sound,” Light breathes. His eyes won’t drift away from L as he pushes himself off his chair, reaches the window in a couple of strides. “You could say I turned my back on my family, forced them into a state of endless worry about me.” Light says with the melancholy smile he gives whenever his family is under discussion. “In truth, I betrayed them the minute I returned that photographer’s smile.” Light had never been in love with the man, but Ryûzaki and his torment had sparked something destructive within him.

L takes interminable time over most things – he relishes his sweets, savours his kisses, works his pictures to perfection. Waiting for his answer is nerve-racking. Light swallows, stands back up. Elegant steps take him to L. His piercing gaze is exhausting to hold. “Then, there’s you. I am reinventing myself and you remind me that wherever you are, you carry yourself with you,” Light says, with something of a sigh of relief. He consciously wears a rueful expression he knows L is dying to freeze in time. With a camera in hand, the photographer doesn’t fear death and decay. Neither does the model. “It’s January, it’s a new year and I promise all sort of things to myself. Then, I cross your path. A gallery, an exhibit, and your photographs that make me sick. I resent you for that photoshoot, but I can’t look away from that young woman, with eyes full of wit. I want to be her. I don’t know it yet, but I will see her face many times after that.”

It had been hard to accept Anna was dead. She had been the thread leading him to L. The light L casted on her had magnified her features in a way that made the young woman look almost immortal. Photography can be cruel, he supposes. How many times had Sayu deplored its disastrous effect on her self-esteem? He used to pat her head and promise her it was just an illusion and that in many years, she would be grateful for the pictures.

“You saw the _Swan Song_? It’s the photoshoot you saw?” L asks feverishly, capturing Light’s hand. He is adamant to know the answer because it’s the story of how they first met. After an unsteady second, Light nods.

Short of words, L wraps his arms around the model’s waist. “The death of two people drove me to you,” Light murmurs half to himself. Suddenly, Light understands L’s bizarre relationship to fate. If you believe in destiny, then every tragedy has a meaning. It’s painting absurdity in the colours of art. How comforting. Light pales with unfathomable guilt, his head buried against L’s neck.


	8. Contrast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on that one. As always, I do thank you for the reviews. Much appreciated, all read with a big smile on my face, trust me. Brighten my days.  
> (Light is terrible, I know, I know.) Also, mentions of characters that will be important in the future! Yay!

 

* * *

_That's the thing about Narcissus, it's not that he's so fucking in love with himself, because he isn't at all, he fucking hates himself. It's that without that reflection looking back at him... he doesn't exist._  
**Billy Chenowith, in Six Feet Under (HBO)**

* * *

## BEYOND

 

The only advantage Beyond has on L: his mind never needed stimulants to overdose. That night, a wild flow of thoughts prevent him from sleeping; an impenetrable gate on his way the calmness of dreams. Fantasies can help you drift away, but memories…recollections of someone you once loved bind you to reality, like an anchor you never wanted. Beyond is not an insomniac, and he is not used to that particular solitude.  What is he supposed to do?

He has forgotten how to be alone, so he tries to confide in the night. It hears everything – the notebook, lost and then found, Yagami and his little schemes, how his life keeps falling apart. _And midnight will not tell me what I should think._ He debates whether to call L and resists the part of his mind that is so disgustingly dependant of him. Beyond too, wants to have secrets. How hypocrite would L be to reproach him with that.

Of course, L will know eventually, that his…that _Yagami_ stole the words of their dead friend. But for now, Beyond needs her thoughts for himself. Death makes everything precious. It’s cruel to throw away the used bus tickets or worn-out jackets of the dead. He rolls onto his back with a desperate exhalation.

Two hours buried under his thick covers and he yields. He threads, ghostly and silent, to the notebook he left on his drawer. It’s strangely heavy. He never knew Anna wrote so profusely. There is an ancient armchair beside the desperately empty bookshelves – so many precious books have been lost to the fire. It’s perfect to fall down into. 

Above his head, there is Yagami’s apartment. You bet it’s empty at this hour. It’s always empty now. The thought draws a bitter smile from Beyond. Even he has never been that obsessed with L. And he became a make-up artist so he could pass for him – that’s saying something. Or maybe that was just to make Anna laugh. Who knows.

He loses himself in her old words. They resuscitate her for one deceptive moment. Her particular, amusing little words. He savours the illusion and engage in a fictive discussion with her. Re-create the special lilt of her voice, her eastern European accent. He reads the notebook over, one, two, three times.  It’s easy, with the eidetic memory.

Strange things, words. Few of them can heal diseases and mend hearts. It’s easy to overindulge. To forget that, like all medicines, you can abuse them.

After four readings, he resents her for only writing lyrics, not telling trivialities. _Why should I care for the past? I want to know how it felt to die. I want to know where she is now._

But he loves her too much; he channels his frustration onto Yagami. He falls asleep, his hands still protectively clasping the notebook.

 

*

 

Anger hasn’t left him in the morning. He has to confront Yagami, and he is eager to do it. Still, Beyond avoids glancing at his phone, aware that Naomi, with all her wisdom, could temper his resolve.

He catches sight of Yagami in the garden. He is immersed in a careful observation of the roses. For some reason, he keeps his distance from the fountain. _Maybe he doesn’t want to wet his pretty clothes._ A couple nervous steps and Beyond stands before him.

“Oh. Is there anything you need?” Yagami inquires in that charming accent of his, “You seem disoriented.”

Beyond takes a breath. _I’d much prefer stay in my head than talk to him,_ he thinks, considering the idea of not confronting him after all. How many years has Yagami suffered, to look like the image of perfection? It actually demands courage to accuse his angel face of anything.  Did L really break through the armor of courtesies?

“I found this yesterday,” Beyond finally manages, slipping Anna’s diary out of his bag.

Yagami offers a lackluster smile. That’s all he ever gives. “I must have forgotten it in the dressing room. Thank you.” He makes a slight movement, reaching for the notebook.

“It’s not yours,” Beyond says, drawing the notebook closer to him and away from Yagami. “It’s not mine either.”

Yagami eyes him like he has just been insulted. “I assure you, it’s mine. It’s written in code. I can even decipher it.”

Beyond frowns _. I can’t believe that._ “You cracked the code, then. I knew some of you models were intelligent.”

“Give me my notebook,” Yagami insists, schooling his face into a neutral expression. Yet, he forgets to sound polite.

“Your face is pretty and tells a lot of lies,” Beyond says, curling his lips. “You can’t act natural, can you? I can’t read into your thoughts. I’m not Lawliet. But I know a liar when I see one. Your kind of liar, especially.”

Yagami lets out a sigh. “I _found_ the notebook. And I deciphered the code. That’s all.”

 _He really deciphered L’s code?_ “That’s not all, Yagami,” Beyond snarls, veiling his admiration. “See, it’s the diary of my dead friend.”

The sun-bathed garden seems to shrink on itself. In Beyond’s mind, Yagami is standing exactly where they found her. It might be an illusion.

“I doubt it. I found it –“

“Who asked you to decipher the code?” Beyond cuts in. “Tell the truth of the guy who’s in charge of your make-up. You have no idea what I’m capable of. Glittery eyeshadow doesn’t even start to describe it.”

Yagami blenches slightly, and Beyond entertains the idea that it’s related to the hypothetical glittery eyeshadow. “Nobody _asked_ me anything,” Yagami counters, glancing about nervously. “Listen, the notebook, it’s just a memory.”

The audacity of him. A _memory_ , when he knows nothing of Anna, how playfully her fingers danced across the keyboard, her insatiable appetite for music. All he knows is the dead girl on the pictures. That’s not her.

“I might look peaceful, but I’m not stupid, pretty boy,” Beyond says, edging closer. “Why did you come to England in the first place? What did you do that you need Coil’s protection? Why do you have her notebook?”

Yagami holds his gaze, but doesn’t manage to do anything else. Beyond won’t let him go. “Whoever gave that to you _stole_ it. You’re siding with the villain here. Think about that.”

“Nobody gave it to me. I _found_ it. And I don’t know anything about Anna.”

“Then how could POSSIBLY have gotten your precious hands on her notebook? Come on, I’m sure you can think of another clever lie! They are all liars in here, you’ll fit perfectly well.”

“I didn’t know it was hers. You have to believe me.” His voice is filled with a nauseating desire to be trusted.

“You’re afraid of what L will think of you? Isn’t that sweet,” Beyond drawls, in a voice that visibly unsettle Yagami. _You’re not the only one with an obsession._ “She used to write in that. All the time. Poetry…lyrics…mostly. She wrote in the gardens. And she died here.”

He stares, stares until Yagami confesses. “That notebook isn’t yours to keep,” he adds, hoping for the coup de grace. “Her code is not a game.”

Most conversations with Yagami flow like some clever, perfectly rehearsed theatre play. That one even has a _deus ex machina_.

“You two,” L's voice rings, as he edges closer to them. He has the nerve to wear a trench coat in June. Beyond has this theory that L doesn’t fear the warmth. Coil, quite simply, argues that he is a vampire, and thus doesn’t feel anything. “I thought you’d get along…Even I can be wrong.”

“He’s splendid, your model,” Beyond says, spitting the words. “So splendid it’s easy to forget what he is.”

“What?” L says, placing himself between them. He reaches vainly for Yagami when he pivots on his heels. “Light! Don’t run away.”

“I’m supposed to be at the rehearsal in twenty minutes,” the model recites coldly. “I’ll see you soon.”

He escapes through the archway of white marble circling the garden, his steps echoing off the ancient walls. There is a certain nervousness in his walk. Beyond draws little satisfaction from that feat. _It’s not enough._

“Splendid... I will give him that,” Beyond repeats, with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “So splendid I want to bash my head against the nearest wall.”

L sighs, and it’s hard to say why. He seems almost delighted.

“You look good. You never looked so healthy,” Beyond says in an accusatory tone. He weights his words with bitterness. Truth is, he resents L for staring at the empty spot Yagami stood minutes ago instead of looking at him. For his ability to hum the flowery air of the gardens as if it meant nothing to him, that fateful place.

“Oh, just developed some photographs. Stolen shots. Don’t tell Yagami.”

“I didn’t ask for details.” Beyond feels tired, all of a sudden. His eyes fall where the fountain stands. The statue at its center, red and menacing, is calling at him. Beyond instinctively follow the stream of water, from the statue’s mouth to the pool. For a second, his mind is elsewhere. Another place, another time.

“That notebook…” L’s voice pulls him out of his anguish.

Beyond flops down on the edge of the fountain. “I had a philosophical approach to Yagami you know. I tried to _understand_ him. Empathy didn’t work, but I thought I could maybe solve him. Put myself in his perspective.”

“It’s…the notebook…” L whispers blankly.

“Anna’s.” As words go, only a name can hurt you like this. “And Yagami claims he didn’t know it was hers.”

“It’s likely. Think about it, how could he have found it in the first place?” L reasons. “Who cared enough about Anna to keep a memory of her, except for you and me?”

“…That hopeless imbecile. Ryûzaki. It’s enough that he ran away after… – he had to steal from her too?” Beyond’s lip trembles on the last syllables.

“We ran away too, in a sense.”

“Of course you’d understand Ryûzaki,” Beyond snaps, looking right into L’s eyes. He is observing Beyond with as much intensity. “Except Anna never asked to be a _muse_. She was a musician.”

L considers the remark for a moment, then sits down beside Beyond. _You better listen, this time._

“So Yagami knew Ryûzaki, left England with Anna’s notebook, met Coil and fell for your art,” Beyond persists, after a sigh to center himself. “You’re clearly not battling against destiny, you’re playing its game. In a few days, he’s going to confess his undying love for me and discover Naomi is his long-lost cousin.”

“It could all be a beautiful coincidence. Or a logical chain of events,” L counters, fixing his dark gaze on the colourful flowers nearby.  “Yagami meets desperate Ryûzaki, sees the tormented artist in him. He’s always been fascinated by art, can’t resist it. I don’t know what happened exactly, but it backfires. He leaves, tries to focus on his studies, is sucked into our mad world again.”

“…Talk about karma,” Beyond mutters. “Are you saying Ryûzaki was proto-Lawliet?” He ponders silently for a minute. “Well, you did have common points.”

“He ran away. I did the same. After Anna died, I existed still but nothing could reach me,” L recalls, reining in any emotion in his voice. “Listen. I’m done with apathy. We need to clean this school, B.” He turns to him, and for a moment Beyond is certain he will grasp his hand. “This is what Anna would want. She was wary of the likes of Coil, and the Angel Agency is just another nest of serpents. Takada rules over it like some sort of empress in the shadows. I like Wedy and I respect Mr Wammy, but you know I’m right. We have to take charge. The notebook is a sign.”

Beyond almost barks a laugh. “I am a PhD student, L. I renounced all that. It makes no sense without her. Don’t you remember? We were a trio. We don’t work as a duet. We just don’t.”

“Trust me, I’ve learnt my lesson. I wasn’t thinking of a duet. I need all the talent I can gather around me. Have you read Mihael’s work? Bestsellers. You can sing, you can act, nobody does a disguise quite like you. I know my shots are worth something. Even Naomi could help us, take a break from her silly little real world.”

Put it like that, and it almost sounds like a bright idea.

“And you want Yagami?”

“I don’t even question it. We need Yagami, more than anyone. Talent alone doesn’t sell. We need a face, and that’s him. The face of change,” L says, rising up to his feet. “Perhaps we can’t get rid our ghosts, but we can make them proud.”

Beyond can’t help but smile at the remark. So typical of L, that sinister perspective on the world. He was that child who yearned for ghost stories.

“Think about it. We will talk at your birthday party tomorrow.”

“…What now? A birthday party? Wait. It’s my birthday tomorrow, holy crap,” Beyond realises, idly rubbing a spot on his neck.

L lets out a small laugh. “See you there. Don’t disappoint me.”

Beyond allows himself to wander in the garden some more. An interesting theory says that all destinies are bound to each other. That the universe is a concerto, thousand instruments harmonizing on a single piece of music.

He won’t be playing on his own this time. He won’t run away. The notebook is filled with masterpieces that long to be heard, after all.

# L

 

 _Let me guide myself with the blue, forked torch of a flower down the darker and darker stairs, where blue is darkened on blueness._ Poetry seeps easily into him as of late. It’s a radical departure from the last months, seeing how apathetic he has been. He’s rather proud of the recent developments – his speech to Beyond has been nothing short of heartfelt, and Light…he’ll find a way to make him stay. He’ll give him what he needs. Whether it’s a guide or an artist to idolize, a man to fear or a lover, he can be all that. It’s all too rational: Light ignited his art and he needs the art to breathe. At this point, it’s basic survival instinct.

He abandons D.H Lawrence to his dark musings when the bell rings its cheerful lilt. This seems worrying that L is assured to face Light Yagami just by the melody of his fingertip on the doorbell. He senses impatience beneath the good manners. _He needs me as much as I need him._

As expected of him, Light doesn’t mention the notebook. Not even once.

It’s less predictable that he doesn’t even begin to talk. L welcomes the surprise, deepens the kiss and slams the door closed in a single movement. He follows Light’s pace, breathes at the cadence he chooses, touches him upon command – it’s easy to yield to a power so delicate. It doesn’t feel like defeat, only small favours he grants his muse. Over and over again.

Here lies the problem. He can reveals the man his weaknesses, seek cracks in the façade and venture unafraid in the dark. But the _model_ stubbornly, inexorably, reflects the light. And for a sleepwalker like L, it’s easier to stumble in the blinding light. Light is his weakness. He has accepted it a long time ago, but that was before he opened his door to it.

It’s not wise, to pretend to know your enemies before you even met them. You give them the upper hand. Light is constantly surprising him, because you can’t own someone that evasive. But at least, he understands Light. He gave too much power to the model, in the name of good art. There is a reason why they all keep their models powerless and dependent.

L is almost realising that, as he threads his fingers through Light’s hair. Almost. He is also hovering at the edge of pleasure. Light senses it and pushes him. On the couch, quite literally.

“What are you apologising for?” L manages after some time and the loss of a few clothes. He hopes to unsettle Light, but Light knows him too well now. 

Light adjusts his position on the couch and places his hands at either sides of L’s hips. He’s obviously relishing the moment. For one confused second, he acts as if L hasn’t talked at all.

Then their eyes finally lock and Light simply says: “You shouldn’t have intervened. I can defend myself.” He leans down, presses his lips against L, giving the kiss an aggressive push.

“Had I not intervened, you would have looked for a way to punish me,” L counters, breaking the kiss and staring into Light’s eyes. None of the usual intimidation techniques seem to work.

Light smirks. “I _would have_ punished you? But what do you think I’m doing right now?”

“I don’t deserve to be punished,” L says, all too eager to play that game.

Light’s shirt slides off his shoulders, baring fading bruises and scratches and L is faced with his own savagery. Some wouldn’t mind, but the artist in him finds the sight nauseating. He disgraces Light’s body like fanatics the statues of rejected gods. How can Light let him? They always held each other in the dark – Light’s choice. Why would he do that now that they can see each other? Show his lover how he reshapes him, night after night? And perhaps it’s all staged, all carefully planned to keep L from resisting his power. That’s just how Light reigns. Small cruelties, dispensed with delicateness.

When Light whispers that he will hurt him for that, an unexpected feeling of gratitude wash over L, surpassing even desire.

_And now I see you._

Light gives him a taste of the discordant soul he kept on a leash every other night. A man who remembers every slight, collect them as excuses to abuse the ones he fears. There is so much he dreads, he has to find power in his fright. The model admitted to fear the photographer’s pictures, excitement dancing in his eyes. That angered the man. He hasn’t created the model to stray away again. Light is punishing both of them, the photographer and the model, wielding that magnetic beauty like a weapon.

This is why L can offer himself. It’s not part of a plan, there is no choreography in Light’s movements. Only instinct.

Light bruises the skin, bites not to smother his own noises, but to hurt. It’s all almost out in the open, the resentment towards the artist who messed with his idea of a perfect life.

“You’re being sincere at last,” L breathes, loving everything in the way Light is outrageously straddling him now.

How easy it would be to lose himself, studying the variations of his features. Luckily, he excels in the art of observation – not one second is superfluous, the conclusions are drawn easily and rapidly. His eyes roam all over Light, from the tension of his limbs to the gleam of deviltry in his eyes. He never stops being beautiful in his cruelty.

All the way.

 

*

 

It must be tiring, to hide all the time. That’s how L interprets the sight of Light’s falling half-asleep as soon as their bodies grant them release. Brushing a loose strand of hair off Light’s face, L considers his own emotions with an unfamiliar detachment. He has been hurt, and his rationality urged him to throw Light off him several times. Instead, he grabbed him by the hips and constantly pulled him on top of him. It’s not force he lacked, but determination. He feels gratitude, excitement, a boundless, childish joy. No trace of anger. Perhaps it’s the hardest thing to do, resent someone who make you feel alive again. Mihael’s comfort was calm and controlled, a lullaby in the night. And how he needed it at the time…

But Light is a mess of raw emotions and repressed desires. He has an unmatched talent to find power everywhere; he lets himself be possessed by a man, shivers at the idea and turns the situation into a power play he can only win. It doesn’t feel at a defeat. But Light will act as a winner all the same.

_I, too, love to play games._

As L slips off the couch, Light mutters something sleepily. He gives a lazy nod when L says “I’ll be back.” Three words dropped in his ear and a hand brushed over his cheek silence him; he looks painfully young in these moments. A 19-year old boy so far away from home.

His face is already schooled into a veiled expression when he meets L in the kitchen, a few minutes later. However, to the expert eye, even Yagami can’t disguise the fury that seized him. It changed his allure. Yagami is not truly sensual, and thus it is not a matter of disheveled hair or creased shirt. It’s a certain lethargy in his movements, a melancholy in his eyes – a sharp contrast with the passion he demonstrated earlier. It’s how his true colours appear, faint and flickering, too beautiful to be missed. It’s L’s line of work to catch the vague intonations Light gives, and make them eternal. In a way, he does that for Light too. So he can see himself.

“…Pancakes,” Light stage whispers, recognising the sugary scent. He means to sit beside L at the table and stops mid-way. “I have never been in your kitchen before.”

“You barely ever eat anything,” L says, and diverting his attention from the food to Light: “I long for the days you’ll eat what I cook.”

“Too much sugar,” Light retorts. “I’m a model, L. This is part of my job to be careful.”

“And we all know how professional you can be. I also want to stress that the all-thin era of modelling should come to an end,” L says, recalling that one successful blog post he wrote. “Then again, I’m not a fashion photographer, I’m not qualified, I know.”

“Well, you did that one photoshoot for Vogue…” Light’s gaze dips to a chair nearby, “You’ve looked through my bag? L…!” he exclaims, grabbing the designer messenger bag off the chair.

“Sorry,” L says with little sincerity, “I wanted to see which clothes you brought with you. We’re doing a photoshoot.” He swallows the last pancake almost reluctantly.

Light’s eyes go round. “Excuse me? Now? I need time.”

“No you don’t,” L reassures him, but it sounds almost like a threat. “My models never needed that. That’s why I chose them. Do you think I have the time to wait? Art is demanding, Light Yagami.”

“Well, you have the time to cook,” Light counters childishly.

“I was starving,” L explains, rising up to his feet. “I can’t work if all I can focus on is my stomach.”

_Especially since I’ll be observing you the whole time and grow hungry again._

 

*

The thin lapelled jacket is tailored in metallic blue, single-breasted and surprisingly loose. In the absence of a mirror, Light has to rely on the changes in L’s expression as he walks out the bathroom into the photographer’s office.

“Vaguely David Bowie chic,” L comments, leaping from the couch. Light frowns. Of course, Ziggy Stardust is the opposite of the classical beauty he is aiming for. As for the Thin White Duke, L is objectively better for the part. Upon reflection, Light seems to brush off the remark as another of the photographer’s mad fantasies and smiles. It’s the rehearsed little smile he wears to ward off the other photographers. _What are you shielding yourself for?_

He understands as soon as Yagami ambles away from him, fingertips nonchalantly skimming the furniture on the way to the couch. He is starting to feel at ease here, in his somber mess of an apartment.

L takes a step back. “You don’t need anything else either,” he says upon studying his model. “I do despise most designers, but I have a soft spot for Amane’s work. She’s an ex-pop star. That’s why she’s so deliciously eccentric.”

“My sister loves her as well,” Light says pensively. The sweetness in his voice draws a short-lived smile from L. Since the night he heard L sing for the first time, Light seldom mentioned his family. But it is there, ever present in his mind, memories edged on his side like a thousand needles. It shows, and it’s perhaps the only truth he can’t hide from anyone. So Light doesn’t evoke his family, never speak their names - the words remain in his mind the same way his sister, mother and father are left in the part of his brain that stayed in Japan.

Of course, all that trouble in his heart is photographic gold. It might be a disturbing thought. Light’s suffering and L longs to catch it on film. In that sense, photography is a socially accepted form of perversion. Thrill balances guilt in L’s stomach and his hands grip the camera as soon as Light positions himself against the balcony frame.

Now this is a cliché – the dashing young man leant on a balcony frame, head titled to the side, lost in his disillusions. He just lacks the cigarette.

But here is the truth: archetypes make the most wonderful art. All it takes is a skilled hand to turn it around; transform the worn-out myth into an original, mind-blowing masterpiece.

Light is studying the patterns spiraling across his sleeve, waiting for L to set up the equipment. If he is aware that L observes him out of the corner of his eye, he manages to feign ignorance.

Upon L’s quick motion of the hand, Light strikes the pose that flatter him most. It doesn’t matter, L has a dozen of stolen shots of the model in his possession – sleepy Light, mostly. He can grant him the illusion of control. Besides, the photoshoot is nothing but a convenient excuse to question him. His best method. Models excel at hiding, but the camera can trigger unexpected confessions. It praises them, like the fox in the fable. Against all odds, Light will act the role of the careless raven tonight.

“Wonderful. Follow my lead like I followed yours earlier,” L says, playing the deep intonation of his voice the way Light loves it.

He nods, eyes filled with the sumptuous afternoon light.

“Do you resent me at all?” L asks, snapping the first picture – nice and sweet, far from a masterpiece.

“Why would I resent you?” The pose is maintained, and the variations in his expression are photogenic.

“The interview…” _Click_. “Kissing you in front of strangers…”

The recollection of these humiliations colour Light’s cheeks. It’s invisible only to the naked eye. A sense of superiority courses through L. Another picture.

“No,” Light says, managing a level voice, “I don’t generally hold grunges.” It rings true.

L motions the model to shift his position. “You consider we’re even now?” Finger dance over the camera. Zoom in. Get the best profile.

“Yes…I love it that way. Before you ask why, I’ll tell you. I feel that you never misunderstand me.”

“Isn’t this scary? If I don’t misunderstand you, then I predict you more easily.”

“Can you?” Light gives a little smile that calls for a slap. _I missed something._ That unfamiliar ugly feeling washes over L – fear. How can Light be so brilliant when fear claws at him all the time? There’s nothing worse.

“Anyway, I love our relationship that way. Don’t screw up. Please,” Light adds, his smile fading.

 _Only if you choose me in the end._ L doesn’t need to vocalise that threat. By now, Light must have realised there isn’t any future for him as a human being with Coil or the Angel Agency.

L takes one more picture. Too much exposure.

“The notebook was Ryûzaki, or so you thought. Why keep it?”

Light lets his eyes wander around. He looks more lively and less like the image of boyish perfection, trapped in a frame. That will do a gorgeous picture.

“It was my duty to keep a part of him. I knew I would forget him otherwise. That wasn’t right.” He pauses, bites his lip. “But now that I learnt it was never his…I translated it. There is no mention of a name. It’s filled with poems, lyrics…hm…music sheets, too. I thought it was a side of Ryûzaki I never knew. But it didn’t feel like him at all. It was fiercer…more self-confidence. I couldn’t have guessed it was a girl writing…”

“Don’t be like that. Art has no genre. Don’t you think it seems fitting for an artist, not to let themselves be hindered by the gender binary?” L teases, delighting in Light’s unease. _Click_. “But you, I get it. You’re a real guy, aren’t you?” Rage flashes in the model’s eyes, beautiful and disturbing. _Click._ Impossible to capture.

“Don’t talk to me like that. You should respect me. Remember I am not obligated to choose you after the Fashion Show,” Light snaps. He won’t let the photographer crush him like a butterfly in the palm of his hand. But would he bend before another? It’s the downside of being the one Light admires: he won’t bend for fear of disappointing him. Before others…Light could sacrifice shreds of his dignity, if the final price is worth it. _Then he would get rid of the witnesses of his indignity._ Misplaced ambition and the cruelty to match.

Light comes nearer to L, and running a hand through his hair: “You’ve played long enough. I do hope you won’t publish those,” he says, pointing at the camera attached to a tripod.

L knows better than obliging Light when he’s obviously trying to escape.

“Who told your father about Ryûzaki?” he bursts out, staring.

Light swallows hard, and darts a venomous look at L. However, in the camera’s presence, the defenses Light built for himself wax and wane. L pinpoints the best phase to draw another secret out of him. _Family._

“Me,” he admits, averting his eyes. “I hardly had a choice.” His voice lacks the usual confidence.

Of course. Sensing Light’s distress, L falls silent. The chief of the NPA must have loved the story; his prodigious son and that suicidal secret lover of his. And now Light is playing the same song again, in spite of himself. 

“Why are you even asking? You knew that, I’m sure,” Light says, not veiling his annoyance.

A childish smile grows on L’s face. “I had guessed.”

“And all the questions? You’re not a detective, get over it.” Light takes a step closer. “Is that why you’re so pretentious about your art? Because you’d be nothing without it? A loser who missed his dream?”

“At least I haven’t even aimed for that star, knowing it wasn’t mine,” L drawls, focusing on the camera again. “You, on the other hand, overreached…”

_Cli…_

The familiar sound dies with the fall. It’s the second time Light breaks one of his cameras.

“There is no reason to react so violently,” L says, voice turning ice cold. “Don’t take everything so seriously.”

“My past,” Light says, placing a hand at either sides of L’s neck, “is not your plaything.”

“Everything can be made into a game, says the toymaker.” L smirks, feeling Light’s fingers tensing around his neck.

“Listen,” L goes on, “I am testing your limits. That’s what I do.” He covers Light’s hands with his. “Besides, someone needs to force Light Yagami to stand up, from times to times.”

“You do realise I don’t know anything about you,” Light says. “It’s a new world for me. I’d rather know who is guiding me through it.”

“It’s better that way. Your knowledge of me…of us all, is instinctive,” L says, slow and soft. “This world will not explain itself to you. What can I say? We are light-addicted, beauty collectors, praise craving monsters. You live for art until art ruins you. How many friendships destroyed in the name of art? It’s a taint. But it’s the only way we can express ourselves.”

“That’s all I need to know? That artists are monsters?” Light protests, crossing his arms over his chest. “Just because you don’t live in the ordinary world doesn’t make you a monster. I always thought it made them exceptional. Different. They don’t take the world for what it is. They change it. The ordinary world is disturbing and you create shelters.” Light casts a strange look at L after uttering the words. As if he resents him for drawing that confession out of his mind.

“I can’t think of photography as a gift,” L says after a short-lived silence. “Have you seen how I use it? It’s a weapon. Perhaps music or literature can make people dream. But photography is aggressive by nature. And fashion? Clothes…nothing but an armour. Fashion designers aim for fright. It’s a dangerous world you’re threading into. That’s all you need to know.”

“But _your_ photographs are not dangerous. They’re beautiful. Beyond the art and the technique. I finally had the feeling someone was answering back to me,” Light says silkily. He locks his eyes on L’s, then. “If there’s a danger in modelling, trust me, I can handle that. I’m not one of those people who are too weak for their art.”

L purposely ignores the jab at both Anna and Ryûzaki. It’s his way of thanking Light for his sincerity. That, and…

“Admirable. Then again, you don’t know any of my issues,” L says, keeping any emotion out of his voice. “I’ll tell you something that you might find frankly disturbing.”

Light shoots L a weighty look that follows his movement as he bends down to grab his camera. _Broken again…_

“My dear mother was a model,” L confesses, straightening up again.

Light’s expression changes. He throws himself at L before the photographer can establish which emotion seizes his model.

 

 

## MIHAEL

 

After ensuring Naomi will be there, Mihael accepts to celebrate Beyond’s birthday. He senses the pun stinging Naomi’s tongue but feigns obliviousness. At least, Naomi has the decency to keep any bad pun for herself. Mihael has to prepare himself for every single of Beyond’s quips, hoping the Jaberwock keeps a decent supply of strong alcohol.

He considers Yagami’s presence with a strange indifference. He might be a mystery to Beyond and Naomi. To Mihael, however, Yagami became part of the background. Perhaps Mihael is too empathetic to wish he would just disappear. That, or Nate’s take on the subject convinced him to take a step back.

“Just consider Yagami is a prism,” Nate told him, bending over his desk to grab a sharp tool. “I don’t believe he is truly _anything_. He will change depending on the person he faces. I focused on his voice, with both L and Coil. He almost imitates their intonations, you know. It’s a basic defense mechanism. He provides them with the Light they want. Don’t dread someone who is willing to do that to himself. You are better than this…”

There’s no need to hate Yagami, really. Nate reminds him of that: if you hate someone the first time you clap your eyes on them, they will surely prove you wrong. Nothing exists at first glance, not even love.

As a writer though, he can’t reject someone who fills him with novel ideas. Yagami has a literary potential that is almost dreadful. As for L, he’s never been so fascinating since he abandoned cocaine. The idea that people exist to be written as characters is terrible, haunting. Mihael will never avow it to anyone, he barely whispers it to himself.

Heaving a sigh, he pushes the pub’s wooden, noisy door. All things considered, a night out is more than welcome.

“Isn’t this my favourite writer in the whole world?” Beyond exclaims as soon as he catches sight of him, sounding strangely sincere. “I’m overjoyed that you came. It’s no secret that you have only hate for me.”

A chair is pulled, and Mihael falls down, sighing. “I don’t hate you. I don’t hate anyone in fact. Naomi likes you, and I trust my friends. That’s all,” he responds, looking Beyond in the eyes. He listens attentively. “I’m looking for ideas for my book. I have to give you that, you’re a personage.”

“Great,” Beyond smiles, wolfish. “Loved your last piece of writing by the way. I, too, used to write about Lawli. Except I hated him for stealing my place beside Mr Wammy. Then I learnt he was his tutor. And everything made sense.”

Upon Mihael’s inquiring expression, he goes on: “We became…sort of friends. I taught him some make-up tricks – I bet you didn’t know. And that’s how he repays me. Being late at my birthday.”

“He wore make-up?” A calm voice rings behind their backs. They crane their heads to see Naomi. She’s wearing combat boots and a marching band jacket to match. “He never told me that.” She smiles shyly, and placing a hand upon Beyond’s shoulder: “Happy birthday.”

Twenty minutes, a second pint and the sound of conversations rising around them soothe Mihael’s anxiety.

“So, what’s up with L anyway?” he asks, frowning. “I didn’t know he remembered any of our birthdays.”

Beyond smirks. “I think it’s just a clever way to gather us at the same place. I love this side of him, always told him he could be a leader. The leader of all underground photographers.”

“Yeah, if it’s another artistic project he intend to lead on his own…” Mihael snarls, running a finger along the rim of his half-emptied glass. “Or it’s about Yagami. He might be staying for the long term.”

“No. I have a good idea what’s it’s about,” Naomi reassures him, casting a conniving glance at Beyond. “If it was strictly artistic he probably wouldn’t have insisted I came…”

“Yeah…You’re right.” Silence sets in. Mihael’s lips part, but he hesitates to let the words flow. He yields, latching on to the belief that both Naomi and Beyond can keep a secret. “About Yagami… I think he has something in common with us, you know,” Mihael ventures.  “It seems he _wanted_ L to accept the Artsy-tic interview. And…okay, it’s a weird thing to do but I figured he might just be lost. You know?”

Naomi and Beyond have the same veiled expression. _The third wheel once again._ “I don’t doubt he loves L’s work. Maybe he just wanted to test him,” Mihael finishes, his voice cold not for the words he utters.

“I don’t see how that make him like us,” Naomi tries, ever careful.

“He’s lonely. A bit mad. Both,” Mihael explains. “I give L credit. If he can’t let Yagami go, he must have felt the same thing. Yagami found him for a reason.”

“You don’t fall down the rabbit hole by chance,” Beyond offers, swapping his childlike enthusiasm for melancholy. “Or maybe there’s more lies. You don’t know about the notebook, Mihael.”

Naomi and Beyond tell him a strange story about the notebook Yagami kept as a memory of an old friend. Only that wasn’t his friend’s. _Two dead people for Yagami to meet L._ What do the poets say of stories that begin in death?

The question remains unanswered in mind. Sensing a presence stepping their way, Naomi cranes her head, mimicked by Mihael and Beyond.

L and Light are walking their way, steps mirroring each other in a disturbing fashion. Some clients are gazing at them in undisguised fascination. In a den of artists, their contrast is bound to trigger discussions. Mihael notices Beyond’s smile upon hearing the neighbouring table debating Apollonian and Dionysian beauty.

Light greets them, all too polite to Mihael’s taste. He places himself on the chair L points to him, and listens quietly to L’s speech about the oncoming change they are all supposed to bring about. His eyes catch the warm light of the pub. Perhaps that’s why Mihael reads awe in them. Or he is sincere, and he admires the raw emotion L is able to show, at times. They both fence themselves in, but together they forget why.

After one hour of heated debate about the state of the Institute – a disaster, they can all agree on that, L expresses his desire to sing for them. It’s only then that Mihael notices how long his hair has grown, a tumble not much higher than his shoulders. Rebelling against illusory beauty standards, Mihael will always call him beautiful.

“I must say…in spite of everything, I think we can do something great.” It’s Yagami who finally speaks up. “We have all we need. Talent in multiple forms. Boundless ambition. A resonating energy. ”

“Speak freely Yagami, no one’s is pointing a gun at you,” Beyond says in a mocking tone.

“I mean it. After I win the Fashion Show, I can use my influence to help you take over the Institute.” They all listen in stunned silence. “I can do that. I want to succeed.”

It’s a bit nauseating, how ambition oozes from him. Mihael can forgive immoderate ambition, though.

“ _Take over._ ” Beyond teases in an impressive impression of Light’s modulated voice. “It’s not a revolution, Yagami. It’s more of…”

“…A renovation,” Naomi completes. They all crane their heads to look at her. She’s always so discreet. Mihael shares that with her, but his attitude and the piercings speak over him, usually. “I am more excited by your project than I have been by my work for months,” she adds with a sigh for punctuation.

“You’re part of the project,” Mihael argues at once. “And you can keep us grounded. You know how nasty we can get.”

Beyond chuckles – it’s not particularly friendly. “Mihael stole my lines. I agree, we do need you.” He pauses. “Anyway I’m more of a student now, I’m part of the real world just like you. You’re doing much better than me, though,” he says, his voice softer. “I mean, I’m still living in a residence for models.” Then, turning to Yagami: “No offense –“

Yagami isn’t listening any longer. L has climbed up the stage and he allows his gaze to fall on him. Yagami is not for Mihael to read, but it’s rather easy to do his thoughts from imagination. It must feel different from the first time he heard L’s voice – he _sees_ him now, so pale under the spotlights. The light doesn’t favour him. It’s true. And yet, L is the kind of man who doesn’t need any favours to hook someone’s gaze.

He wishes Yagami to choose that man over the usual disillusions. His own selflessness takes him aback.

 

 

## LIGHT

 

Light compares L to all sort of negative things in his head. A disease. A curse. A twist of fate. He could easily hate the photographer for the way he forced him open, reshaped his model, like an inventor would his automaton. Smiling, for instance. Smiling is something Light only did while watching runway shows in secret or receiving the praises of his father.

That’s why in spite of himself, he is grateful. He has affection for L because he causes him to feel more real. It’s pure egotism, unlike love. It gets him thinking. What are people searching when they fall in love? He figures it might be different for everyone – people like L, they long to be understood. Put it like that and it’s something he’d want for himself. But he knows better; love is a dream of the worst kind – easy to fall into, impossible to wake up from. He can think about it, though. It does no harm, after all. He is not renouncing anything. He is just _thinking_.

Light has an appointment with Coil in half an hour; the thought is enough to make him nauseous. All that humiliation, and for what? Coil’s connections to fashion designers? The Fashion Show? None of that attracts him, really. It’s the praises, the looks, he drinks feverishly. Like a drunk his wine. He should have refused Coil from the start. But he had been a friend of Ryûzaki’s. You can’t refuse fate when it’s embracing you so tightly. A smile plays on Light’s lips, as he recalls how he had felt after the call from the Angel Agency.

The implacable beauty of L’s photographs had heated that sentiment. After that, it was too late to retreat. He only has one choice: success to make up for the path he chose for pleasure.

He swallows his glass of wine, and through the haze is struck that he hasn’t slept in his own flat for three days. He is too tired to care. There is nothing waiting for him at the residence, not even a plant to water. It’s just white bright nothingness; a deceitful colour, white. It’s not pure, it’s fluid, ever-changing. White never looks white. It’s grey at night, beige in the afternoon, and few are up to see its true colour at dawn. _Sounds like something L could say,_ Light thinks grimly. He waits until the photographer leans to whisper in Mihael’s ear and gets up.

“I should go,” he hears himself say. “I will think…about what you suggested. The project. Give it a name. Something with moon, that’ll please you, L.”

He reaches for the door, but L is faster and his body remarkably resists alcohol. Then again, he was a drug addict; you can’t have it all.

“You won’t go without me. Let me accompany you to Coil’s office,” L intimates. He means to sound reassuring but his words are reminiscent of the photographer’s orders. Lawliet hasn’t abolished his walls. He will not grant him that. Light can see it very clearly, all of a sudden.

He wants to tell L he’s perfectly capable of finding his way. The words remain lodged in his throat. Gagged by own weakness.

L eyes him, amused. _Bastard._ “Come on, Light. There is no shame in fearing loneliness,” L insists, playing on his model’s inability for self-mockery. Light does bristles at the remark. That concept is lost on him – it seems shameful, to lower himself when he is surrounded by strangers looking up to him. Even the Agency people. He is honouring them; what right does he have to speak ill of their poster model?

More importantly, why would he mock himself when the world is full of people hoping he misses a step, so they can have a good laugh? It’s not a secret to him that L’s friends talk behind his back.

“I never wanted them to hate me,” he tells L, as they thread beneath the pillared porches of the Institute. _I want them to love me._ Is it love, really, when you have no intention to ever mirror the sentiment?

“They never hated you. They want to hear you. Despite all appearances, they are far more understanding than I will ever be,” L responds, gazing far ahead of them, as if recalling a memory. “They handled me at my worst. Beyond ran away from me, had to study philosophy to communicate with me.” Light wants to intervene, but holds his tongue. He knows nothing of L’s past. “I care about them. I wish I knew how to honour that. But I’m done with self-pity, Light.”

They have almost reached Coil’s office when L halts his walking, standing tall before Light. “And you…I don’t just need you. I might have given you that feeling. I want you to be with me. I want you here. It might require some sacrifices on your part. But I assure you, it will be worth it. I stand by that promise.”

Light’s heart seems to stop mid-beat, but he devises an excuse for that in no time. It’s not L, it’s the appointment with Coil, the perspective of coming in late. He blinks at L, and manages his seemingly untouched composure. “You expect a promise from me as well, don’t you?”

“It would be the polite thing to do,” L answers, in Light’s silky tone of voice.

He is short of time, to list the pros and the cons. All that come to mind is this: an existence with L may result in endless plays and as many emotional games. It feels real, also. Everyone needs a real life, even if it’s tainted.

L slides his long fingers around his waist. “Go. You’ll be late,” he orders, half to himself. A soft kiss planted on Light’s neck and he finally slips away. “You’ll promise later.”

L is halfway through the corridor when he adds: “Don’t let them own you, Light. Shine bright.”

He hasn’t even turned to face Light. He must have known he couldn’t hide his emotions, Light deduces. So what is it that passed across his features? The will to be the only one possessing Light Yagami? Or the instinct to protect him?

Light spends half the appointment trying to establish that. Coil’s words are insignificant. Until, somehow, Light hears himself mentioning Anna.

“Anna? She was a tormented soul, but she could have thrived,” Coil responds, nonchalantly sat on the edge of his desk of pine. “If only she had followed her own path.”

He pauses. “It’s the same for you. You’ll have to choose. Lawliet has been working independently from the Institute he owes everything. You representing us and working for him…you understand it will be frowned upon.”

“And for a good reason,” Light answers, his voice cold.

Coil rakes a hand through his slicked back hair. “Now, if you’d rather obey Lawliet, I’m not stopping you.” He gives a smile that vexes Light. “But you’ll have to do without me, or Wedy and the Angels Agency. Think of all the fashion designers Miss Takada works with.”

Light has never met the Director Takada, but her reputation alone is a key to endless doors. He knows that, and yet he kidded himself into believing his success depended only on himself.

“If you renounce our agency, you also give up our partners. I already got you an appointment with Dazed. And – I didn’t want to say it now, but we have a contract with Misa Amane.”

Light shifts in his seat, fixing his gaze on Coil’s face. He is not lying. Amane, the rising star of the London fashion scene, models dressed in strange patterns and elegant fabrics. They call her the queen of hearts. She enjoys both sides of the nickname, the royalty and the passion. Light couldn’t care less, but _queen_ , as a word, screams success. The opportunity of a lifetime.

“Don’t turn your back on us,” Coil threatens, standing back up. “You promised. And Takada doesn’t forget a face, even one she’s only seen on paper. If you win this show for us, she may actually acknowledge your existence. If you quit now, she’ll sink your career. Do you want to walk the runway for the best of them, or pose for your boyfriend?”

The words have the effect of freezing water. “I haven’t allowed you to pronounce that word,” Light hisses, and swallows against his throat when Coil ignores him.

“I had a friend. Talented, a style unlike any other,” he says, hovering around Light like some predator. “I advertised for him everywhere. Told designers about him. He was chuffed at first. So grateful…Until he drifted away. ‘I found a muse’, he told me, ‘that will make my art better’. Real joke. She became more important than the art.” The recollection makes his smile bitter, almost frightening. “I had seen ideas and power. All flattered in the name of an obsession. He dropped everything I worked so hard for.”

He stops his pacing, places himself before Light. “If you care about the artist, never indulge the man. I may not like Lawliet, I can recognize good art. You’ll spoil each other.”

Light bites his bottom lip. He can distinguish the truth beneath Coil’s poisonous words. Or is he just looking for a way out of L’s influence?

Once, a shameful boy ran away to England. A foreign place to be made anew. It’s not L he is supposed to honour, but his family, and the man he was supposed to be. He gave too much away for L. He abandoned law school for his pictures. He can’t take everything.

“So, should I cancel your next appointments, Yagami?”

_We’re meant to work together._

_I need to reinvent myself._

Now, which one is the choice he will regret?

If he poses for L, he chooses pleasure. If he represents the renowned Wammy’s Art Institute, he chooses pride. Modelling at all meant preferring pleasure over duty. But success come in many forms, and there is power in appearances. If he can’t be a dutiful son, he will become a praised one, at least.

That isn’t about Amane, or Coil, or Takada. They’re necessary evils on his way to paradise – a new, perfect life.

And Sayu adores Amane’s designs.

He cannot cancel the appointment.


	9. Chemicals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have absolutely no idea! I don't know what to say. Thank you for your continuous support, really. I do appreciate it, and I hope it shows.

* * *

 

_In loneliness, the lonely one eats himself; in a crowd, the many eat him. Now choose._

**_Friedrich Nietzsche_ **

* * *

## NATE

The high marble walls of the Institute make him uncomfortable, and not for their coldness. It’s the absolute whiteness of it all. It doesn’t match the wild, misshapen art Nate sees plastered across the walls. Then again, he is not an artist. He reads Asimov for the crazy science, that’s all. Once, by way of bonding with her son, Nate’s foster mother offered to teach him how to paint. He couldn’t refuse her, and it remains to this day the only art Nate ever touched.

Shuffling past a whispering group of students, Nate feels anxiety rising up in his throat. Without Stephen, he has trouble finding his way. But Mihael texted Nate to come at once, that it was important, and Stephen takes an eternity to eat even the pallid salad of the cafeteria. Does Nate regret his rushed choice? Of course, but life is a lot like chess. You can’t retreat when you’ve made the move. Or, rather, you can, but you’d have to apologise for your careless mistake.

Nate is not in the mood for apologies. Plus, it would be nice to manage some simple task on his own, for once. He smoothes his tie between his fingers, feeling its embossed texture. The symbols scattered across the fabric add up to Euler’s last formula, the one that unified varied conflicting aspects of math. Nate thinks it’s a comforting thought.

The calm it brings him is short-lived. At the end of the corridor, sleek and lean Light Yagami stands before one of the Venitian-style mirrors on the wall. Amidst the little flock of students, many crane their head to observe him. The scene is beautiful to watch, symbolic as a Greek myth _._ Nate halts his walking and waits for the _deus ex machina_.

Tales and fables appease Nate, as they follow a familiar, reassuring pattern. An attentive reader might see the ending before it hits him.

He’s not surprised to catch sight of Lawliet hurtling down the stairs to stride in Yagami’s direction. Tension reads evidently in each of his steps, and seeps into the corridors. Nate’s throat is parched.

“Am I interrupting the daily pep talk to your reflection?”

His voice, ever calm even in his fury, has Yagami’s shoulders shoot up in surprise. As usual, the model uses his wits to find a way out instead of responding to the provocation. He tries to slide himself away from Lawliet.

“Oh no. Look, no escape here,” L says, his tone sour as vinegar. He advances on Light, trapping him between his own body and the wall. “What are you going to do if you can’t run away? Avert my eyes? That won’t make me disappear, kiddo.”

“Please, move,” Yagami says. Nate has never heard a plea weighted with that much restrained rage. It’s the public humiliation that stings Yagami. He is constantly casting nervous glances at the little crowd growing before the neighbouring classrooms. 

“I’m curious: did you think I’d just accept that disgusting compromise? I hate compromising. I did it once, for you. I’m not a man who makes the same mistake twice, Yagami. Look. I get it. You’re scared, you’re far from home, and a brilliant career is all you’ve ever dreamt of. I can understand that. But a promise is a promise, and if you betray your own word, then what kind of man are you going to be?”

“I haven’t promised anything to you.”

“Don’t play with words, I know the trick. There is more than one way to promise.” Above them, the transparent ceiling showers the paintings covered walls in the peculiar sheen of a rainy day. It seems to suit L’s mood.

“It’s not a promise if I haven’t promised,” Light persists, his tone nauseatingly didactic. “You should stick to abstract concepts. You’re bad at dealing with contradiction. It’s something I noticed reading your blog.”

“Oh, shut up. I won’t listen to the advice of someone who ran away. You’re a coward. That’s the gist of it, isn’t it? You ran, and not for the death of a man you never cared about. It’s how it gave reality to your relationship, all of sudden. You ceased to be the prodigy to be the secret _boyfriend_ of some dead paparazzi. You know, that ability of yours, to make people care, is astounding. Really. Especially since you’re incapable of caring for anyone else but yourself. Why did you need Ryûzaki in the first place? Me…that was the praise, or the English accent. But him? Was it the power you had over him – that depressed, once so talented fellow, murdered by his own guilt? Was that your plan for me as well? Tell me, come on. There’s no need to be so shy.”

Light flushes, and from what Nate can distinguish, there is a nasty gleam in his eyes. “You’re a bitter man, Lawliet. The darkrooms suit you well. You and I, we have nothing in common. What makes you react that way, I wonder. I believe it’s the perspective of being alone again. That, and the realisation that you were wrong all along. We should never have met,” he declares, averting L’s piercing gaze admirably well. He recites the words like a child would a poem.

“We _should_ be working together, and I stand by that belief,” L retorts. _I knew he was a believer._ L had faith, he was just rational enough to stitch his beliefs together with his cold logic. “I dare you to tell me you never believed it. Now, I am not responsible for your cowardice. I tried to put you at ease, you know. I could have understood everything about you, just like that.” he says, snapping his fingers to make his point. “I _chose_ not to, because I knew, after that… disaster of an interview, that it would scare you.” He takes a step closer to Light. Ever prideful, the model refuses to move.

“I have not missed my dream,” Lawliet says, scarcely above a murmur. The group of students dissolve into frantic whispering because the words were inaudible. Nate understood, though. “I’m not a dreamer, I have _goals_. What are you?”

A beat. Yagami swallows. “Not yours. That’s all you need to know.”

“I’d have respect for someone who wants to remain independent, instead of bearing with me,” Lawliet replies, an octave higher. “But you’re just selling yourself to an industry you know nothing about. They’ll take you, body and soul. Your consent won’t be a priority to them, trust me.”

“You only care about my consent if you’re the one managing it,” Yagami blurts out. He seems to regret it immediately.

“If it’s about the interview-“

The remark draws a sigh from Yagami. It seems rehearsed. _Of course, that interview is his leverage._ Yagami has sacrificed a shred of his pride for that advantage. A few rumours around him and Lawliet were worth the control it offered him. _He knew of Lawliet’s tendency to pose as a monster. He knew it would work. Mihael was wrong not to tell Lawliet_.

“It’s about _everything_ ,” Light cuts in. “I know you take pictures of me when I sleep. The lusty glances and the patronizing remarks. I was only tolerated in your universe for your art, or the physical…things. Don’t pretend otherwise. Don’t pretend you have anymorality”

Yagami’s capacity for cruelty is far superior to that of Lawliet. The lilt of his voice never rises, but his words have sharp edges and leave acute cuts. Bizarrely, Nate is fairly certain that will not stain his reputation. _They’ll think Lawliet deserved it,_ Nate thinks sadly.

Silence sets in between Lawliet and Yagami, and it seems to command the whole second floor to hold silent as well. They are all watching the calm before a storm. It’s a privilege Nate could do without. The temptation to turn on his heels and leave is immense, but his body tends to freeze under such overwhelming stress.

“There is nothing real about you. Has there ever been? I thought Ryûzaki’s suicide, or your parents’ disappointment made you like this. But that’s not it. You’re not real, Yagami. You live for others. You’re not a real person.” It’s Lawliet who speaks out at least. He sounds different. Exhausted. It costs him great effort to speak, and his voice is as jagged as that of an ill man on a hospital bed.

“I’ll leave you be. I just want you to give me something real,” he intimates. “Hit me. But use the truth.”

Yagami blinks at him, closes his eyes slowly, and inhales a long, deep breath. When he opens his eyes again, his expression is perfectly indecipherable.

“The truth is ugly. As an amateur of beauty in all its forms, I thought it wouldn’t interest you.”

“Stop with the riddles.”

“You like those,” Light says, wearing a childish smirk. “Can’t you solve mine?”

“Why this, Yagami? The show is over, don’t you understand? I’m not playing games with you anymore! For God’s sake, it’s a simple task I’m asking you. I don’t want your secrets, I want the truth. The truth, a truth, anything real. Give it to me. That’s all I’m bloody asking for!” Lawliet snaps, and, in a heartbeat, catches Light’s wrist, and pins him against the wall. Bizarrely, the model does not fight back, except to roll his eyes skyward.

“Is this supposed to frighten me?” he says, maintaining his voice level, “You have to be desperate to resort to that. I am not surprised. You have a taste for violence. I witnessed it.”

They are standing so close, and Near stands so far from them, he has to immerse himself in the sounds to hear the words. It feels different without the expressions and the body language – they both lie better with those. Their voices betray them.

His clouded gaze fixed miles away, Yagami goes on: “You see, me… I wasn’t always alone. And I’ll be soon surrounded, praised, supported. Not for what I am, maybe, but for what I’ll become. You, on the other hand, pretend you have friends. Take a look around you, and think of me when you do it. Who’s left by your side? After seeing you for the man you really are, did anyone ever chose to stay? All you have is your work. It’s your only redeeming quality. Now if you allow me, I’ll escape from this toxic influence of yours.”

Lawliet can only stare, silenced. His grip tightens around Yagami’s wrist. Paler than usual, Lawliet seems to be fighting a powerful spell; all that controlled rage he is ashamed of, it’s clawing at him, pulling at its bridles.

“Are you calling _me_ toxic? I’ve never been so alone since I met you.”

Perhaps if Nate could distinguish the rage flashing in Lawliet’s eyes, he’d take a step back for fear of his anger. But all that reaches him is the shiver in his voice, the weeping wound caused by betrayal. Beneath the well-formed words, Lawliet sounds like some wounded animal.

_He better not snap. It’s Yagami’s intent to play on your emotions, L. Don’t give it to him._

Then again, life is a lot like chess.

“Some people deserve to be alone, Lawliet,” Yagami concludes, weighting each of the words with as much venom as possible.

In chess, endgames play out in favour of the aggressive King. However pleasant and courteous he might seem at first glance.

Lawliet’s hand flashes up in the sharp daylight. The rain has soothed into faint drizzle, so the sound of the slap fills the corridor. When Yagami meets Lawliet’s stare again, his bottom lip broken, an exulting smile is playing across his boyish features that disappears immediately. That smile sends shivers down Nate’s spine, and it seems so cruel, so unreal, that for an instant, Nate doubts it ever existed.

“This is it. Goodbye,” Yagami says, easily escaping Lawliet’s weakened grip. He disappears round the turn at the end of the corridor in a couple long-legged steps that echoes off the ancient walls. Not a glance back.

A few brave souls dare approach Lawliet. No response is obtained, only sovereign ignorance. His eyes are set on the empty space Light has occupied. There is no one left. _Was there ever anyone?_ Nate sees it now, Lawliet’s expression. It’s blank. He looks dead, a perfect fit for someone who couldn’t say farewell.

 

*

Nate’s walk is mechanic. He shuffles to Room 27.B, a finger continually twisting a strand of his hair, and by the time he reaches the music room, Lawliet still hasn’t left his mind. It’s strange that he cares that much. All things considered, it may have little to do with Lawliet and Yagami. It’s about the universe. It’s about the nature of a Genius and a Prodigy, and their mutual cruelty. Yet, it’s Nate who has been labelled heartless, cold and sour. What great puzzle.

Mihael is too distracted to sense Nate’s unease. Alone in the music room, he has his mind set on a piece of paper.

“This music sheet.” Mihael says upon noticing Nate. He gets up. “It was written by the girl I told you about. I’m sure there is some sort of cypher. It seems coded in some way.”

Nate shrugs. “It could be a simple music sheet, Mihael. Maybe not her best work.”

“I don’t believe that. Anna was a genius.” Mihael pauses. “Look, we have our differences, and I think you’ve been privileged all your life but…there is a reason. You’re a genius too. So please, do that for me and take a look.”

Nate would hardly call his albinism a privilege. Yet, he keeps the bitterness out of his voice as he replies: “I’m not a musician. You’d do that better than me.”

“I failed to find anything,” Mihael confesses, sounding defeated. He sinks back into his chair. “I write more than I play. Still… I felt it. The melody is unfinished. You don’t need the music to decipher it. Music is math. She was Beyond’s best friend, I know he taught her tricks.”

“Why not ask him, then?” Nate ventures, observing the beautiful handwriting. He spies a strange pattern.

“Beyond?” Mihael says, mildly offended. “I haven’t seen him for weeks, and I never trusted him. In spite of what he says, he’s working with Yagami –“

Nate folds the paper, and slips it into his messenger bag. “About that…”

“What? Is there a problem?” Then, lowering his eyes: “Oh no. L finally caught him then, didn’t he? It was bound to happen anyway.”

“It’s not right,” Nate blurts out. “Lawliet has his flaws. And I believe him to be unbelievably egocentric, but he didn’t deserve that.”

Mihael looks up, eyes round. A faint, sad smile flickers on his lips. “Deep down he’s like you and me. A child someone deemed a burden. I guess Yagami saw that, and used it at his advantage. That’s how he is.”

“Cruel?”

Mihael shakes his head. “Toxic.”

 

## NAOMI

 

Wedy sees a repressed artist in her. “A writer, maybe? You notice everything. Not in Lawliet’s way. You don’t say anything about it,” she mused, and invited her to Eraldo Coil’s gallery opening night on a whim. Wedy’s persistence with Naomi is admirable. _A shame we can’t have her in our team._ As a jape, Naomi suggested they call themselves the Jaberteam – an homage to their favourite pub. It drew a little laugh from L, much to everyone’s unmitigated surprise.

When Naomi Misora steps into the faintly lighted gallery that night, she wears the outfit Wedy threw together for her. A tight-fitted blazer covers her creased shirt of pleasant linen – a classic style that suits her discreet nature. Naomi is grateful not to be noticed, and delights in observing her surroundings. With his tartan pleaded pants, Mihael is impossible to miss. He greets her with a boyish smile, the kind of smiles he reserved to L back in the day.

“I never thought I’d see you there,” he says, relieved. A quick glance around informs Naomi on Mihael’s sentiment.

Rolling her eyes, she grabs the glass of French wine someone offers her. “He never listens to us.”

“Yeah. He told me something that reassured me, though. I had doubts about his relationship with Yagami, but – He always knew the guy was poison.”

“How does that make you feel?” Naomi inquires, hoping Mihael will confide in her.

The young man shrugs. “It doesn’t matter what I feel. At least, he believed in Yagami’s lies. He loved that. To him, they were the protagonists of a disturbing fable, a game, whatever. I should have known. L thinks that’s all he deserves – like he’s tainted or something.”

Mihael fixes his gaze on the photographer’s willowy figure. Presently, L is assuming a gloomy expression, nodding mechanically at the nattering of his fellow artists. A peculiar sadness is always hovering about his face, and he doesn’t mirror the etiquette smiles thrown at him. It’s not an attitude. He glances sideways, tugging at his sleeve nervously. A child’s gesture. If Naomi follows his look, it’s Yagami she’ll find at the other end of the thread. 

Slender, perhaps paler than usual, Yagami is posted at Kiyomi Takada’s side. The glass in his hand is half-empty. The distant ring of his voice is enticing. There is tension in his pose, however. Contained anxiety. Naomi is attentive enough to notice it, but everyone around the young model seems enchanted to have him by their sides. He moves closer to Coil, and Naomi perceives the beguiling fragrance of his perfume, salty as the seaside.

When L finally escapes his zealous admirers to greet Mihael and Naomi, all trace of melancholy has vanished from his face. After five minutes of tense discussion, it appears that L won’t ever let Yagami slip out of his mind.

“Look at him,” L grits out, “He took the petit four Coil handed him, and threw it away as soon as he wasn’t looking.”

Mihael huffs a long, exasperated sigh. “I’ll not be hearing this all night long.” He grips L by the arms. In spite of his petite physique, Mihael forces him to turn around.

“Listen. Betrayal is the worst feeling ever. I get it. There’s nothing quite like it to make you feel like shit. Top that with abandonment, and that little smirk he gave you a second ago,” he says, and upon L’s inquiring look: “Yeah, I saw it too.”

“I know you. You’re relentless. And I’d tell you that things are going to get better, but they won’t because you won’t let them. You want revenge? There’s only one intelligent way to get revenge.” Mihael turns to Naomi. “Tell him. I know you know.”

He is casting at her a look so intense, Naomi feels compelled to try. After a quick glance at Yagami, she forms the answer in mind. Of course. “Ask yourself: what does Yagami seek? Why did he abandon you?”

L rolls his eyes. “Success.”

“Then be more successful,” Mihael intimates. “Get out of your cave, Lawliet. It’s time you show fashion how it’s photographed. I know you see art in it.”

Naomi nods. “He’s right. You have a special approach to it. Let Yagami do his mistake, that’s all you can do for now.”

“Wammy asked me, you know. He wanted me to direct the show, this year. Even her Royal Highness Takada insisted.” In his melancholy, L is closer to the man he really is. Naomi sees this reluctantly. L’s voice is trembling like a butterfly flutters in the lights, and it’s a bizarre fit for the man. Too sincere. “Coil was their second choice. It’s so hypocritical. He calls Takada the _alpha bitch_ behind her back. I, for one, only said it once, and she was standing right in front of me.” 

“But it’s you who refused their offer,” Naomi dares. “Why?”

As evidence that he favours her, the remark does not vex L. “Because of my bloody, childish pride, that’s why. Takada gets on my nerves, and I was mad at Wammy. I sulked. I locked myself in my room. And now I’m bored, I want out. I want the show. These stupid spotlights, even I am not immune to them.”

She avoids mentioning Yagami. If there had been love between them, it was moribund before it could bloom. Naomi is cautious in her advice on the subject. She forgot Raye, and it cost the best parts of her. She is still winning it back, piece after piece.

“I’ll be there, in the corner. Mentally planning my photobook,” L says, scarcely above a mumble. He needs time to think of a plan, Naomi understands.

He ends up standing vigil beside the buffet, pallid and somewhat menacing under the dancing lights, whilst Mihael scans the room for editors and publishers. It’s such an irksome sight, that fierce, mordant young man, forced to mince his words so he can sell his prose. Wedy might have a point. Everything here is so terrible, she feels like writing about it.

 

## LIGHT

 

 

He’s free now. Free to visit other galleries, admire the art L hates, and talk to the designers L warned him against. He can accept Takada’s gifts –of course, she has some hidden agenda, but L had one too, if only to possess him. His future is bright and attractive and promising. What does Lawliet have? Independent photographers don’t get more praise than he does presently. He’s stuck. _That’s why he needed you, Light._

They needed each other like business partners. Light admired the wall covered in intriguing photographs, Lawliet hoped for a renaissance. The rest? Adrenaline, a craving that moved them both – In Lawliet’s case, amped up by a disturbing fascination for pleasures of the flesh.

Their mistake was clear: they fancied themselves in love. A companionship exciting as a game of chess. _They_ were nothing. It was always Light, and L, at either banks of the river, meeting once in a blue moon for power. Ambition. Comfort. A childish mistake, really, to impose love… even affection, in that picture. However, weakness shared by two is less heavy of a burden. Light can live with it. Time, as always, will ease the wound, convenient excuses as bandages for his fickleness.

It’s Lawliet, who ruined it all. A little time after his meeting with Coil, Light did call. His courage was not rewarded. He remembers…

 _“I’ll work for you. But I need a favour. Yes, just one thing.” A beat. L’s breathing increased in tempo, following his heart pulse. Light tried not to hear it. “It’s not much,” he said. “I need you to publicly, firmly deny our relationship. Our partnership as well. We have to work in secret for a while. Surely you understand how important it is for me.”_ _After a moment of silence, L muttered something resembling a cold “I’m disappointed”.  Light hung up before he could add anything._

And then, he lunged on Light at the Institute, yelled and ridiculed him. _His loss, really._ In truth, Light has foreseen that outcome. This might be for the best. Ignoring Lawliet? Child’s play. His presence at the Institute, now that he has no one to spy on anymore, is sporadic. He was an outcast of his own choice before Light, and only escaped confinement to chase after an idolised muse.

A shaft of gentle sunlight breaks through the clouds, tracing a shimmering path to the gallery opening Light has been invited to. Or is it another photoshoot? Biting his bottom lip, Light slides his phone out of his pocket to ensure he’s heading to the right place. He is stressed, ashamed. He writes his appointments days in advance, how could he forget?

Light is free. Soon, it will feel good.

It’s been two weeks since he last met Lawliet’s piercing look. In reality, at least. L still lavishes lingering glances on Light, but it’s always a dream, or some sick fantasy Light loses himself in before rehearsals. It makes his stomach churn just to think about it. _Freedom comes at a high cost._ He has to pay. Who doesn’t want to be free?

He was right to leave, as evidenced by his calls to Sayu. They’re more frequent, and even if he does lie, his purpose is to ease his family’s worry. When he tells Sayu he’s met Amane, she responds with a delighted giggle that illuminates her voice.  

 

*

 

He loses sleep on Tuesday afternoon and finds it again on Friday. Surely, it can’t be more than 48h that he didn’t rest. The rehearsals wear him out. He used to live in these sharp lights, defy a subjugated audience, charm it as he used to with his perfect reasoning at the police station. His own voice rings in his mind, whispering that this is all just karma. Didn’t that man, Ryûzaki, died because of him? He has no right to happiness.

It’s the week before the runway show, and Lawliet published an outstanding article in the British Journal of Independent Photographers. Light hates it. He hates how a murky sky has him think of L Lawliet. He hates that he hacked into his blog and read all his unpublished posts.

The day of the final rehearsal, the dressing room is ringing with the sound of conversations. Among the twenty other models Amane personally appointed, Light is the lead, and lighting the way is a mission he delights in. 

Light cranes his head as Takada places a cold hand upon his shoulder. “Don’t worry if you fall on the runway,” she says, “That would simply mean we were wrong in choosing you. And don’t expect sympathy because of my Japanese heritage. I was born and raised in this country.” She has extreme awareness of her own voice, Light senses.

“I wasn’t expecting anything. I assure -“

“Shh, little boy,” she cuts him off with a quick motion of the hand. Her wedding ring catches the light. As the genius entrepreneur behind the success of Deities, less of a fashion magazine than a bible to all designers, and the Angels Agency, Kiyomi Takada has refused to renounce her name. Besides, the name Takada alone is part of the Angels brand. It’s etched above the front porch of their offices. _She’s vain. I can work with someone like that,_ was the conclusion Light drew after meeting her for the first time.

“You posed for Lawliet,” Takada says upon examining him. “I never asked: how was he?”

“Competent,” Light replies, taken aback by his own honesty. He never doubted Lawliet’s talent. It distinguishes him from the rest.  The rumour depicts him as an amateur of bizarre pornography, when he defends erotica shot in a ghostly light. Even the lover is sensual and subtle, or Light wouldn’t have accepted his touches. He never offered himself to anyone else, after all. In Lawliet’s caresses, there was always more than the sexuality Light had never been receptive to. “He has a true gift,” Light adds, glancing at the sleeve he keeps tugging at. His body is acting strangely as of late.

Takada steps closer and allows herself to smooth her model’s shirt. She has no issue with touching him. “So I heard. It’s a shame that he is so bad-tempered. I always thought he’d be a fantastic fashion photographer.” _She expects me to talk._

“He claims to have no interest in fashion,” Light answers coldly.

“For himself, of course. Turtlenecks and sweaters. God help me,” she sighs. “Some people are hopeless, but he could do much better. I can see him in a suit, modern cut, and fine lapels.” Then, with something of a smirk: “He’s too pretentious to care about clothes. He thinks he’s above us when, deep down, fashion frightens him.”

Light considers her words in silence. _He was afraid of me, that much is true._

“Why didn’t he publish any of his shoots of you? I get that a proper photobook takes him an eternity to set up. He’s a perfectionist, not unlike myself. Usually, though, his models are all over his blog. But, you, Light Yagami, are missing. Why? The shoots weren’t good enough, perhaps? I was so certain of your competence.”

The response to that petty jab at his talent comes naturally to him. “He’s the one at fault. I’ve done everything perfectly. Call for Coil, I can show you.”

“Light Yagami isn’t a bad model then.” Takada is eyeing him expectantly, regal in her pose. Light is discussing with his reflection.

“I’m not. Lawliet is bad-tempered, as you said. He is changeable. Perhaps the shoots weren’t to his taste, but I assure you I was excellent,” Light says, looking right into Takada’s eyes. “I have been loyal and diligent to your Agency ever since you hired me. Miss Kenwood must have told you.”

“Of course, she did,” Takada begins, and cuts herself off. She is staring past Light at the doorway, and by the pained expression she gives, Light guesses Amane just appeared. He has met her before. Misa Amane is a little, strange woman, who wears her attachment to Goth aesthetics as proudly as other women their jewels. She eyes Takada like she’s a deity, but not the good kind. After dropping a few words in Wedy’s ear, Amane saunters in their direction. Coil follows her, and snaps a sharp salute at all his favourite models. Light averts his gaze.

“Oh! Kiyomi is angry. Who angered you so I can thank them?” Amane says with a playful smile.

“Don’t push me, Amane. This is not the day.”

The fashion designer chuckles. “I’d never tease you on a good day. You’d only ignore me.”

Takada makes a noise of sheer frustration, and presses a quilted jacket into Light’s hands. “Have this. We’ll talk after the show. If you didn’t fail.”

 _I never fail._ Brushing the padded fabric soothes his mood: he has a clear vision of himself wearing it. He might hate himself for that daydream.

“And don’t take that many pills. You’re spacing out,” Takada adds in an undertone. Usually, Light would have returned the slap, in the most venomous of ways. That edge in her voice though…it sounded close to desperation. _She needs to win as well._ Takada strides out the room, glaring at the few models who are still undressed. Amane, Takada …this is a game for none of them.

Silence lingers after Takada’s departure, until Amane claps her hands and cheers her models on. Smiles blossom as she strolls around, sending winks and words of praise. Excessive joy is her style, and even Light has to admit she has a contagious enthusiasm about her. In a matter of minutes, he is all dressed – his favourite piece is that short jacket, narrow at the waist, its elegant pattern an homage to kimono embellishments. He avoids bringing Japan to mind.

“If you lose this, we will hear about it for years,” Amane laments, flopping down on a chair beside Light. Her little tour about the room seems to have exhausted her. “Or rather, we will never hear about Kiyomi again. I can see her quitting, and starting another business. She’s talented at her job. That would be so sad.”

“She’s not that crazy,” Coil counters. Leant against a wall nearby, he’s fiddling with his camera. It’s the same model Light broke months ago, in Lawliet’s apartment. “It’s only the rehearsal. Even if Yagami fails, there are no consequences. She should take it easy.”

“Each rehearsal is important, Mr Photographer,” Misa tosses, her tone sharper than usual. “If you’re that careless, you’ll never make it in this world.” Then, changing her voice and adopting a dark face: “Let them think art is fickle. That will make our work shine brighter.”

 _That’s something he would say._ The heart of another would have stopped mid-beat. Light’s kept its pace – it has been racing ever since Sayu called.

Coil bristles at the remark. “If you wanted Lawliet so bad, why didn’t you ask for him to be the creative director? I didn’t ask to be there.”

“I know, you prefer to shoot naked models, don’t you?” Amane teases, and with a smile as Coil advances on her: “I’m kidding, Eraldo. Hey, don’t be such a jerk. You wouldn’t hit a woman. And if you try, I’ll have my pretty knight protecting me.” She doesn’t take her eyes off Coil. He halts his walking mid-way to Amane, and barks a laugh. Light swallows.

“Your _knight_ , Amane? I’m not afraid of my models. No offense, Prodigy. I can defend myself, and a model’s opinion doesn’t matter anyway. You can very well think I’m a brute. That I’m not subtle enough for you. It’s not my problem."

Light presses his lips together, and, all at once, recalls every slight he suffered from Coil. The lingering looks and the constant disdain for his talent. At that man’s side, Light feels reduced to flesh and bones and instinct. Never has he hated an artist that intensely. To Light, at this very second, Coil is the image of his own weakness – a crude, false man, full of empty moral values. _If not for him, I’d be happy here._

“I think your conception of modelling is flawed, Coil,” Light says in an incisive tone. He softens his voice then, for fear of a faux-pas. “Since my opinion doesn’t matter, you will allow me to tell you this: I’m not here for you. I never have been. I don’t respect you as an artist. As a man, you inspire me nothing but contempt. You know why I am here, and it has nothing to do with you as an individual. Now, I thought this was a given.”

Light pales at the sharp sincerity of his own words. Two heavy steps and Coil is towering over him. In his fury, he seems taller, and stockier. “You’re nothing here. Nothing. Lose the mask, Yagami, and tell everyone how I had to rescue you from Lawliet’s claws.” He stabs a finger at Light. “Without me, you’d still be his pretty prince. Ah, a _muse_. Give me a break. Everyone knows what you are –“

Amane’s voice rises behind them, but Light pretends not to hear and digs his fingers into Coil’s arm. “Don’t talk to me like that.” He feels the mad tempo of his own heart, and emotion clouding his view…emotion, is it, really? Rising up to her feet, Amane motions the other models to flock into the neighbouring dress room.

Coil locks his eyes on Light. His look is invading, and reminds Light of the men he feared all his childhood, the villains he imagined would kill his father. It’s a failing of his, to distort reality so it fits some disturbing tale. _Borderline masochistic, just as relying on this stupid medication_ …He feels his grip tightening around Coil’s arm, not for anger, it seems. He needs it to stand. Beneath him, his legs are made of cotton.

“Remove your hand, Yagami,” Coil demands, and that edge in his voice – condescension, Light reads – it’s worse than the heart aching against his chest, racing, too fast. “Remove that hand,” Coil persists.

Light obliges, and falls. There is a flash of lacework and puffed sleeves, and frail arms cradling him. _She too needs a muse._ He hears himself murmuring something to Amane that she has the audacity to ignore. “You can’t walk the runway in this state, Yagami. You’re exhausted. When was the last time you slept?”

She annoys him, with her concern. “I have to go, it can’t be all for nothing.” After she helps him to his feet, he feels confident enough to add: “I trained for this. I will be perfect.”

He just needs a minute alone.

*

His feet lead him to a dim lighted storage room with block out curtains. The darkness of it attracts him. A soothing contrast with the sickening whiteness of the mannequins, all stiff and lined up in a regimented fashion against the wall. With his hands shaking, Light sits down by the wall, gasps for air, in the foolish hope this too will come to pass. It feels like going mad, everything stripped bare for him to see – Takada’s crude ambition, Coil’s cruelty, his own desire to fit in, the horrible words he said to L, just to win a game, how he misses him.

A grim reminder he’s hasn’t slipped out of consciousness yet, his phone rings. Yet his hand digs two things off his bag. He grasps the phone and fiddles with the unprescribed medication with his other hand.

“Is this a bad time?” Sayu’s voice.

“No. I’m alone. Is it urgent?”

“Actually, yes.” She pauses. “Um…I don’t want you to panic.”

His eyes fall on the bottle of pills. There is no paper label round its neck, because it shouldn’t be there, in his possession. _It’s not poison either._ He ventures to open it. “I never panic. You can tell me. I’m fine.” If they had all been fair to him, he never would have needed the pills. He yields, swallows. “Just tell me, please.”

“You don’t sound fine at all.”

“Sayu. Don’t be like this,” he orders, slamming his eyes shut in exasperation.

Another silence. Then, her voice trembling: “It’s Dad. He had an accident. Nothing serious, though! Okay? He’s at the hospital, and almost on his feet already.”

He slowly opens his eyes and sees a place in flashes. White, unmerciful artificial lights, medication to postpone the inevitable. “Pardon? The _hospital_ –“

“Yes. He had a minor heart attack. They say it’s the stress. Work has been exhausting lately. Some drug-dealing case, and a suicide – I’m sorry, Light? Light?”

“A heart-attack…This is serious, Sayu,” he hisses. “How can you just brush that off? Is he… are you telling me everything you know?”

“Light, he’s fine. I assure you.” He resents her for that edge in her voice.

“I should have talked to him…”

“This has nothing to do with you. Not because he doesn’t care, that’s not what I mean…Oh, I’m bad at this. Light, please, don’t panic –“

“I’m not panicking, damn, Sayu! Stop saying I am when I’m simply asking for details!” He fails to rein himself in. “I will call later. Promise,” he manages at last, and when he hangs up a surge of artificial assurance fills him, courses through his veins, turns fear into familiar adrenaline.

*

As chorused applause fills the room and resonates through him, Light thinks it’s unfair that Lawliet is nowhere to be seen. Coil cannot do justice to his triumph. Light led the models like an exquisite army of puppets on the runway. They all followed his cadence, and each of his steps was a silent order.

Now he has a call to make, and a victory to promise his father.

## L

 

It could be easy. He just has to let go. Anyone can do that, geniuses and dimwits. A strong will is all it demands. It should be simple, but Light won’t leave. It’s odd: he has never been as present as in his absence. L notices everything, and the void he left is too evident to miss.

So, L leaves the apartment, where Light was courteous and mannered and broken; he avoids the studio, and the flashing glimpses of that ravenous young man he loved to photograph.

His body leads him to the Institute so he can breathe fresh, liberating air. Light has been there, but at the same time, he’s never really been there. He’s never Light beneath the marble arches. They shimmer above L’s head like mirrors at daybreak, and he loses certainty that it’s not actually a dream. The feeling is unpleasant. No one is worth abnegating reality for. _Certainly not him._

Yagami chose the most recurring pattern in his style – a river of lies. _Let him drown._ As for L, he can be audacious, he can be relentless. If Yagami can’t be exorcised from his mind, L will haunt him. He can be a challenge, a thorn wedged into the model’s side. Oh, that won’t hurt, quite the contrary. What better way to punish Light than to grant his wish? _Yagami, you’ll owe me that victory_. Give a man a crown, but ensure you have the power to rip it off his hands. Gratitude takes you places, Light has said, and rightfully so.

To attain Director Wammy’s office, there is a staircase that spirals up and up and up, until, behind the windows, the sky is all that is left of the real world. As a child, L used to dread those stairs. It highlighted to him how sheltered his little existence was. His mother had left him with a man who lived in a high tower, and collected rare paintings, and frequented auctions. Once, he tried to observe the moon, sat on one of the windows ledges. Ever zealous in his obsessions, he acted the role of the spoiled child he was then - chin resting in his palm, tranquil as a poet. It felt like a privilege, to immerse himself in the passive contemplation of nature. He despised the sentiment. In L’s mind, many conceived art in the same frivolous fashion we let our eyes skim the night sky. Art has power, it does no good to deny it. _I won’t do that again._ Anna’s death turned him into that child he rejected, a miserable soul, another of Wammy’s debased inventions. Someone who sold his art, and mocked those who believed in it.

It’s over now, the paradigm has shifted. He reaches the last step, feeling his nails digging into his palms. Before him, at either sides of the massive doors of varnished oak, stand two sculptures – a deity, wise as a muse, pressing an hourglass against her chest of white marble, and a creature many mistake for a dragon. _It’s a phoenix, and it never dies._ Few students ever set foot into Wammy’s cabinet. The sculptures have been admired by a few, which injects an aura of mystery into them. Not quite enough to be redeemed, L judges. He reads malice in their eyes, and that muse smiles a deceiving smile. At least it represents art faithfully. Art was never meant to be comforting, and those who pretend so are losing themselves in the simplest of fairy tales.

He only knocks once. The door opens for him, without question. It’s been four years but it remembers him.

The muted atmosphere of the cabinet sends shivers trailing down L’s spine. Not for fear; it’s a side-effect of remembrance. The desk and its intricate ornaments, and the masks – the whole Commedia Dell’Arte on the walls; Joker-like Arlecchini, and the beaks of the ill-fated plague doctors. L notices all of this at once, effortlessly. Nothing has changed, not even the tall elegant man posted before him. There is a vivid emotion, rare, in Quillsh Wammy’s expression.

They share an embrace and sit face to face, familiar gestures acted by their bodies, like puppets playing a memory.

“I hate this,” L admits in a breath.

“Asking for help, I know. Especially, in these circumstances.” Wammy’s voice seems to echo off the walls. It’s an illusion due to his intimidating presence.

“Don’t say it.”

“I told you so. I won’t say it twice, promise.”

L traces the serpentine pattern of his armchair. “I should have accepted your offer. But there was something about fashion that frightened me. It’s so distant from everything I am.”

“Fluid, ever-changing. Deceptive. I know what you think, and you are right. You often are.”

“They’re not all like you. I just don’t fit in there. The shows, the runways, the designers and their interminable previews. It’s all rejecting me. And I thought it would crush Yagami as well. I made myself think that so I wouldn’t be alone. I wouldn’t be the one dreaming of a world that doesn’t want me. It has hated me ever since I broke that model’s career.”

“That model is your mother,” Wammy counters, severe. “And you are not responsible for ending her career. She made a choice. Listen. You don’t have to devote yourself to an art that frightens you,” Wammy says, after a strained silence. “Why not find some middle-ground?”

L considers the idea. Will he still need portraits if he can capture the bodies? Perhaps he was still that tired child prodigy after all – deprived of power in the land of independent photographers. You can’t rule in here. They’re the anarchists of the art market. If Fashion has to eat him, it will be in his entirety. He won’t offer just a limb.

“A middle way? It’s not in my nature. I lose myself in things, or I avoid them. Same with people. I’ve come to believe addictions are my personal style. You saw a gift in me, but using this gift was never enough for me to create. It’s not satisfying. It would be lazy art, and I don’t doubt it would be successful as well…But who cares about that? Yagami challenged me constantly. I wasn’t merely using my talent, I was involved in my creations. Immersed. And I know he felt the same.”

“I can see that. I had the chance to watch the last videos of the rehearsals. He moves quite easily. But every model can do that. I could tell someone was missing.” Wammy’s eyes pin his protégé to his chair. “You should be there, Lawrence. With us. What I suggested you wasn’t a pact with the devil. We needed you. The show, the institute, Takada and her models.”

L swallows against his throat. “You?”

“Even me.”

Silence descends, until L finally speaks up.

“…Do you trust Coil as a creative director?”

“He’s not you. I deplore that. However, I’d be a hypocrite if I denied his other qualities.”

“As a man, we both know he’s a lost cause. Yagami refuses to see it, but you can’t free yourself from the truth you feel within you. Having to see him endure Coil, it’s a form of torture. He keeps tormenting himself.” He hasn’t meant for his voice to quiver.

“Misplaced vanity is only another shade of self-hatred.”

“Coil never saw any of his gifts. But Yagami is not my priority here. It’s you. It’s your school. Observe Coil, and how he treats the most talented of his models. He yells at him. He only shows condescension and hostility towards a young man he should be protecting. If anything, Coil has always been too friendly with his models. Never like this.”

“What are your conclusions?” Wammy queries, shifting position in his chair.

“He’s, quite simply, sabotaging your show,” L affirms. “If Yagami snaps, or if he renounce – which I highly doubt; he will never back down, not when the stakes are so high…” _He’s an addict as well._ A thought strikes him then, and he lets realisation brighten his features. “No, forget what I was just saying…This is not your school he is mad at – Why didn’t I understand that before?” L rises from the chair and, pacing:  “He is constantly mistreating Yagami, and he wants him to burn his wings, and all of that…Are you listening?”

“When am I not listening?” Wammy says calmly.

“All of that because he resents him. You remember Ryûzaki? Of course. I thought only Light blamed himself for his death, but in fact…Coil always knew, didn’t he? He didn’t choose Light by chance. He always wanted him.”

“It was a suicide. Even if Yagami happened to know Ryûzaki at the time, he is not responsible.”

“I happen to disagree. If someone is drowning before your eyes, it’s your duty to extend a hand. Yagami didn’t. Trust me, I know. He probably ignored it until the end, and then…it was too late.”

_He found the body, lost the Prodigy, dishonoured his family, and stole the notebook._

“Coil has a personal agenda, then,” Wammy states. If the tale has touched him, he doesn’t show any trace of it.

Looking into Wammy’s eyes, it seems to L that he might still be convinced. “It can’t be good for you. Coil is not interested in winning.  Do you need more evidences? I threatened him once, so he’d give me some of his pictures. Did you know that?”

“I ignored that fact, but I can’t say I’m surprised. Go on.”

“Yagami never knew, but I had nothing substantial against Coil. He backed down immediately, because he didn’t care if Yagami worked for me,” L explains, and props his hands on Wammy’s deck for punctuation. “Quite the contrary, it was easier for him to paint me as some sort of abusive emotional vampire afterwards, or whatever it is they whisper about me these days. Anyhow, Coil is not an asset. Get rid of him.”

A fond smile hovering about his face, Wammy seems lost in some old memory. “You’ve always been so perceptive. I missed these conversations.”

L steps away from the desk, and crosses his arms over his chest. “Will you do something about it? Or will you stand and watch in the audience?”

L dares give a sharp look at his mentor. Some live in terror of Lawliet, all live in reverence of Wammy. He is the sort of man who’s respected even by his enemies. As Wammy’s studies him, so pale in the rich lights of the cabinet, L knows he’s lost. Wammy reads, and only sees fragility in his words.

“This Institute has a will of its own. They all have grudges, they’re all plagued by a heavy past or ideals they pretend to believe in. Coil has a mission? It doesn’t concern me. I trust Takada and Amane will prevent any catastrophe. It’s not my creation, it’s theirs.”

There is no venom in Wammy’s voice, only inexorability. Nothing has changed here; the masks lined up like torches on the wooden walls, the armchairs of brilliant velvet, the feeling you’re disputing with fateitself _._

“You’ll regret it. This apathy will cost you.” L hears his voice like a dagger, shivers. “And I won’t be watching that show unfold with you, not this time.”

He leaves the cabinet feeling, at long last, proud.


	10. Distortion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for the support. I think I'll post all the material people have created for this after the last chapter. As a masterpost of sorts. I am so grateful to you all, really. I hope the amount of passion and work I put into this shows. We're not so far from the end now.  
> 

 

* * *

 

 

_The thing I’m most afraid of is me. Of not knowing what I’m going to do. Of not knowing what I’m doing right now._

**_Haruki Murakami, 1Q84_ **

 

## MIHAEL

 

Mihael has multiple interpretations for L's enduring silence, and none of them reassures him. It could be that he is immersed in a work of genius that will increase the distance between them. The notion saddens Mihael, but it’s an inevitability he is prepared for. This is preferable to any alternative, as they all involve Yagami in some equally disturbing way. What was the model, to L? Never a friend, hardly a lover. A muse, then, whatever that means. There is a logic in this – art disturbs, fascinates and moves L. In Yagami, he found the incarnation of art itself, wicked as he imagined it.

An artist who has been abandoned by art, how he is supposed to react? In spite of himself, compassion washes over Mihael, fine fingers pressing his heart. This is not rational. Yagami is only human, it’s L who painted his portrait, and glorified him, a beautiful profile shadowed in moonlight. A sort of Dorian Gray-esque elegance edging towards collapse.

“A muse? It’s inspiration at will, forever; it’s art reinvented every time you lay your eyes on them. It’s a promise. It’s a vow; may you never be lonely in your art again.” Mihael recalls L’s words from a year ago, slow bitterness closing his throat. L painted Yagami in the colours that pleased him. This mess, it’s all L’s fault. The artist frightened the muse. No one, even Prodigy Yagami, can honour his expectations. It didn’t prevent him from trying, though. Yagami must have fancied being loved as intensely. Who wouldn’t?

He was gone as soon as fear started to tug at his sleeve. If Nate is to be believed, Yagami claims ambition is what drives him. A lie, meant to reassure himself – Lawliet is the best at what he does, and Yagami’s charm does not need the catwalk. Success is not a promise, it’s waiting for Yagami at the end of any path he will choose. He is the key to his own future glory. Prodigies, that’s the fabric of muses, I guess. With the thought comes a sour taste in Mihael’s throat.

He sends another text to L. _Am I not allowed to care for you?_ He is not an imbecile, however, and doesn’t expect a response.

His phone rings sometime in the early afternoon. All L gives him is a place – his apartment, and a time – whenever. He obeys diligently, and goes there after class.

Behind the door, sugar and candies are found in the strangest places. It’s neat, otherwise. More so than Mihael remembers. Books are lined up, straight and regimented on the shelves, in an order that is unusual. It might be the last discernable trace of Yagami’s presence.

“You’re not afraid to come anymore.” Bent over his desk, L has his gaze focused on a series of photographs. Mihael moves slowly. In the darkness, the pictures scattered across the walls seem to glow. They’re the only lights left – the sunlight is relentless but shatters against the block-out curtains.  

“If only I knew you wouldn’t snap any pictures without me knowing, I would have come sooner,” Mihael says in an accusatory tone. He takes a seat beside L, crosses his arms against his chest, hoping to feel more resolute.

“I don’t steal souls, Mihael,” L says sincerely. It’s touching, as L considers that sort of beliefs seriously. Then, in the same solemn tone: “I capture moments before they die from the passage of time. You might think you’re not photogenic, but no one really is. It’s the stolen moments that are beautiful.”

“There. It’s your problem,” Mihael says severely.  “You want to steal moments that are meant to pass. Time exists for a reason. Some moments are better gone and forgotten.”

Some absences should be celebrated. You’re free, L, can’t you see?

“No. It’s best to remember, always. You seem to forget remembrance isn’t the childish fear of the future. You can only move forward if you have some memories to leave behind, and how do you know your memories if not by summoning them from time to time?” L lifts his head, looks at Mihael, and yet, doesn’t see him. Is there more painful offense? Mihael swallows his pride. He will choke on it, one day.  

“That’s what photography – any kind of photography, is all about. We don’t need the pictures to hold on to the past, we need them to recreate it for one moment. Get sucked into it, so we can finally say farewell. Over and over, as many times as we want. A portrait to feel a dead person’s look, vivid as it was; a man and his burning flag to revive a political statement.”

L dips his clouded gaze at the photographs once again, as if addressing them. “I don’t know, Mihael, do you truly believe this is being a slave of our past? Or do we master it that way? I stopped being afraid of death after I learnt how to save instants of my life. That’s why I’m hitting a wall with Light Yagami. We would prefer each other dead. I’d be peaceful and still pale as he loves me. And I would never yell at him again.”

Mihael isn’t sure that perspective would enchant Yagami; Nate spoke of a triumphant smile in response to L’s wrath. He loves igniting fires, and show how he can survive them.

“I don’t believe so, L. He seems to resent you, and maybe the act of killing you would satisfy him…but you would leave a void, you would haunt him. He would hate you for that. He would hate you more dead than alive. As for you…You want him whole. And you want him too much. You trust him with your art. I mean, he betrayed you, and you’re still…You want to protect him? To help him? It’s…I don’t know. I can’t understand. It’s…devotion.”

“Devotion?” The word seems to sting L. “No, it’s merely survival. I need him, and I’m honest enough to admit it. We recognised each other, like many lonely people do...”

His remark dies with the brisk change in Mihael’s expression.

“You were never alone. I don’t get it. I never left you alone! Listening to you now, I could pity you. But you chose him. You chose to open that door, and you love the plays he creates for you. He changed since he met you. It shows. The models of the agency worship him now, don’t you know why? Because he defied you. He’s singing your song, and I don’t think he is unaware of that.”

L’s hand, ghastly and perfectly adjusted to Mihael’s taste, reaches for him. The gesture is dismissed. Mihael takes a step back, then two.

“There is no shame in love, don’t you know it?” He spits the words, hoping for nothing, he doesn’t get the ghost of a result. L remains perfectly still. “You’re made for each other. And you have something even rarer – you deserve each other. You’d want the whole universe to dance at your pace. You’re not different from the lot of us…you’ve been blinded. The difference with you is – I love you. And I’m hurting. It’s my duty to open your eyes, isn’t it? There is nothing substantial in his love. Will you love an empty thing? He plays with the dark parts of you, he never told you about that interview…he calls you impure, disgusting for it, but he wanted it to happen. He wanted you to expose him.”

After a silence, a real one, devoid of sounds or unsaid words, L raises his voice. “I hurt you. That wasn’t…I’m sorry. For all of it. And you’re right. He troubled my vision.” Swiftly, cruelly, he sweeps the photographs away. “These are worth nothing.” They scatter across the floor, light and silent as painless memories. “I know I have been unfair to you. Anything you need to do…do it. I would force myself to understand.”

Mihael closes his eyes, breathes. “I know.” There are hands pressing his heart. The despair in L’s voice stretches his nerves. “I know… You’re alone. You feel that way, even if you have company. You will always feel that way. You want to feel that way.”

“You should leave.” L has trouble fixing his gaze, hates himself for it. It shows, that rage tensing his limbs. _I have seen him like this before._ Finding his addiction gone devastated L once. It’s back. There are monsters you can never fight yourself.

“So, you always knew for the interview, didn’t you? That’s what you meant the other day, when you claimed you always saw how toxic he was. I thought that was a good sign. I thought you would forget.” L edges a step closer, but Mihael proves swift enough to retreat towards the door. Anger courses, warm and familiar, through his veins. It’s better to leave now. “I was so stupid! Where would you go? Where would you find your fix? You should find help for these obsessions you have. I’m not strong enough. And cocaine scared me less.”

Mihael slams the door behind him, so he offers his anger a chance to be heard.

*

Over the phone, Naomi seems to feel the tears filling his eyes. She has a voice Mihael loves – soft with a secret, reassuring authority. She has a gift with words, the useful kind, a talent for saving people.

It’s been two hours of half-silences. A strange melancholy flutters in the room; it’s music, of the nostalgic sort. Anna’s partition reveals its secrets, and Mihael slides onto the couch. There is comfort in Naomi’s place, pieces of a normal life, unfinished books and scattered bills. It’s cleansing, as sorrow can be sometimes, a place to arrange your life again.

“Well played, Mihael,” Naomi says after taking the last sip of her tea. “I can confide the final piece to Beyond. He will be ever grateful to you.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s Nate you should thank. He did half the work by himself.” Anna’s last partition played on the hidden beauty of math; numbers and lines of codes stood guard before its true meaning. It took Nate, a known genius, a week to translate it.

He told Mihael it was worth it with a strange gratefulness in his voice.

Naomi is holding a magazine open for her to read. At some point, the melody turns violent, and Naomi’s eyes widen. “Oh look at that – _I might never leave England again. I have a family home, and I won’t honour them by straying away from my path. If someone can do this, it’s me._ ”

Of course, Mihael could read the interview himself. There is, however, a stunning portrait of Light Yagami on the double-pages that he refuses to see. “I’m done trying to understand him. I tried my best, and I always come back to that same place of…hate. It’s really shameful. I wish I could just stop caring altogether.”

Naomi dismisses the magazine with a flick of the hand, pushes herself on the side of the couch so she’s facing Mihael. “Then you couldn’t write. You couldn’t be a friend to anyone. It would be a great loss. You’re excellent at both of these things.” In the same serene tone, she continues: “You always wait for others to approve of you. Be hard-working…kind. Be a person you’d love to follow. I believe it’s an intelligent strategy.”

I could believe that. Strange thought. L once used similar advice on him, and it proved to be vastly inefficient.

“Thank you,” he says. “You talk brilliantly, you know? Words are wind, I know…But you’ve weighted yours. Your colleagues at work are stupid not to give you more credit.”

“I was absent for a long time. I was there without being there, and people started to talk behind my back. You know how petty people can be, Mihael.” She keeps the wounds from her voice.

“Well, you’ll prove them wrong soon, I’m sure. That’s what they deserve. You’re too considerate. Look at that, your words were so great to listen to that I almost forgot L for a while.”

“You shouldn’t. He wants to be a friend to you, and he will never stop trying. It’s the artist you’d better avoid. He is too self-centered, and you were right – he doesn’t know how to stop.” Naomi pauses, think for a minute. “That’s probably the last thing he needs to learn; how to free others. Let them go. Clearly, he can’t do that now.”

It strikes Mihael, then, how often L has argued he would never be a mentor. _You’re already better than me_ , he confessed once. Mihael protested vehemently, by virtue of that blinding admiration that poisoned them both. He knew, even then. He knew L was not a man to share his art. He wanted his creations to be disturbing, and distant, and unreachable. He wanted his art to be exactly like him, and regarded words of praise with disdain.

_It’s his way, an art that holds others hostage._

“Sometimes I think his creations speak over him. If it makes sense. He thinks people love his art better than him. I can’t prove him wrong. No one sees him, after all. How could they love him?” He doesn’t even allow me to love him.

“He’s that kind of artist,” Naomi replies, and her voice sounds warmer, kinder, as she speaks about art. “There isn’t one acceptable way to apprehend art, as much as it would reassure us. But you know what you all tend to forget? You’re humans, flesh and bones, not paint and lights and words. No one is born an artist. L forgets that. He acts that way because he thinks of himself as a vessel. That’s my feeling, in any case.”

“It does make sense. He wanted a muse, as another man looks for a soulmate. It obsessed him.”

 “Until the source is dry. I don’t think it can be eternal. He’s too stubborn to pursue Yagami, and isn’t Yagami too proud to come back?”

“You’d be right in most cases. L lives to be that special, brilliant, exception to the rules.”

And Yagami lives for rules. They are a fascinating contrast. Mihael recalls the vicious melancholy of Yagami’s poses, sorrow turning violent, a presence surpassing the paintings and the ring of his courtesies, pieces of poetry. He hooks the attention, captures looks, relishes glances as the many evidences that he will never be rejected. For the same childlike fear of rejection, he obeys the rules, studies them. The knowledge of Eden’s rules is the assurance never to be casted away from paradise.

He will be a rule-follower, until he takes over to shift the paradigms for his own.

“They give me a headache,” says Mihael after a moment of silence.

Naomi has a compassionate smile. “They might hurt each other, but it’s better than the alternative – them hurting everyone else. As for L…I might have a piece of advice. Don’t laugh, metaphors aren’t my specialty.”

At the word metaphor, Mihael lets himself sink deeper into the couch and huffs a little laugh. “I will never say no to a story. I knew you had it in you.”

Naomi ignores the childlike mockery in Mihael’s tone. “It’s silly, you know, but whatever works... My aunt knew a stray cat like L. A sad, bad-tempered, greedy animal. It bit the hands that fed him, and seemed resolved to challenge every human who dared approach it. The cat found a worthy opponent in my aunt, though. Contrary to everyone else before her, she didn’t abandon the cat, she didn’t stop feeding it. She grew accustomed to the bite, until it served nothing to the animal. Its bite didn’t matter to her. It made no difference; she fed it every day, all the same. Soon enough, it grew tired of trying and she never felt its teeth on her skin again. The solution was strange to my eyes, but it worked. The animal wanted someone who would stay, in spite of its terrible nature... or maybe because of it.”

Mihael’s eyes widen under a horrific realisation. _I wanted the praise, only the praise, without the bite._

“I used him as well,” he replies, a quiver in his voice. “Every exception he made for me – a warm smile, a touch, words he reserved me…I was proud of receiving them. They were trophies. As many reminders that I was worth something to someone great.”

With L, he fancied himself a tamer, a snake charmer, the saint who loves a monster. _I played the victim, it’s easy enough._  

“You shouldn’t feel guilty. It’s easy to fall into that trap, the beauty and beast. It’s a tale, it’s made to appeal to us all.”

“It never happens in reality. Beasts end up waking other beasts. That’s what L wants to show on his photographs. He hasn’t caught the decisive instant yet, the moment Yagami will obey his own rules.”

“I agree.” Then, with something of a laugh: “Your words belong in a book. Break the fairytales, how exciting.”

“I guess that’s something I could do,” Mihael says, and is taken aback by the determination in his voice. “Write about them – I just need a plot.”

“Murder stories are my favourite. Although, I do not wish that on them. And that won’t happen.” It sounds eerily close to a wish, instead of a certainty. “Anyway…that might be a good idea for a cure. Let your words flow, you’ll be just fine.”

 

## BEYOND

 

Anyone can be beautiful, sensual or wretched. Friable concepts, appearances. Philosophy didn’t teach him that, cosmetics did.

“Models should be more than their appearances, you know. There is a presence, an aura you have to craft around you,” he tells the pretty face he is applying eye-liner on. “That’s why modelling is complex. You need to command people never to forget you. But no one should feel your authority.”

Models are used to listen in obedient silence. That is why Beyond confides them his grand theories about modelling. He rarely ever gets a response, and when he does, it’s solely guided by politeness. Others would find it frustrating, that depressing lack of mordant.

Beyond reads a fear of spontaneity in a model’s silence, and a discretion he appreciates. He loves a vis-à-vis who gives off an air of quite attention. They seldom listen, yes. Should he care? He prefers a merciful lie to the harsh truth, always had. It’s a form of cowardice; he admits it to himself, sometimes, when the weather is fair.

He doesn’t need their full attention anyway. For all the scorn he receives, Amane has always been strangely receptive to his musings.

Her little hands cup the model’s face, her eyes study the colours and how they blend together. “It looks fantastic! Oh, I knew I was right to choose you.” Then, with a smile to the model: “You’re free, you can go now.”

“I thought Mr Coil was the one who asked for me,” Beyond says, shifting on his stool to face her.

Misa’s gleeful expression melts. She bites her lip. “He did, but only to annoy your friend, mh…Lawliet? Jeez, that would have been fantastic to have you three. But I only got you and Yagami. Don’t get me wrong, I’m ecstatic.” She huffs a sigh, composes a charming attitude for herself again. “He’s so pretty though. So _inspiring_.”

 _Tell me about it._ Yagami found the way to the whimsical hearts of artists. Feeling the weight of Beyond’s stare, Amane is drawn back to reality.

“Hm… I almost forgot! Where have you been? Sorry I didn’t ask. I could make arrangements for your absence and I think Takada doesn’t hate you too much.”

“I needed to…focus.” It’s impossible to explain. Still, he tries, because of the fascination he reads in Amane’s eyes. “Magnificent things are happening everywhere. I’ve been self-absorbed. Selfish.” _Dead before my time._

“And then what?” Misa Amane says expectantly. There is no mockery in her tone. “You changed, you improved in a month?”

“It doesn’t take time to change your perspective.” He recalls how it felt, the flight, admiring the world from up above. “I needed fresh air. See…it’s possible to breathe on my own… You don’t have to please anyone at all.”

Misa nods. A distant memory clouds her eyes, and her fingers dance lazily along the waist of a mannequin. “I guess independence is not my forte either. I’m glad you could learn one thing or two.”

“All it took was talking to someone, you know.”

“Who, then?”

“An old forgotten legend,” Beyond teases. “I’m certain you know her, you listed her name as one of your role models.”

Her eyes light up in excitement. “McQueen is dead, and he wasn’t a woman either, uh…Let’s see…”

“You mentioned her in an interview. You were still a model then.”

“Oh,” Misa says as pleasure brightens her soft features. “Miss Kwon is it? She’s been some sort of mentor to me. I hope she’s fine now.” She pauses. The sight of Beyond’s soft smile seems to warm her heart. “She’s fine, right?”

“She is.” They met twice in a café in Paris, a cliché, as Beyond cherishes them. Twice. Enough to learn secrets from Miss Kwon; she used to collect them in her other life. There comes a time in the life of a liar, a time to finally let go of the lies, a time to wear the tales proudly. No one talks as much as a lonely liar. Radiant jewels are made to be admired, to a liar, distorted truths aren’t any different. In that, Miss Kwon is not her son. Lawliet is all secrets, so much so that he can’t tell lies since there isn’t any truth to compare. 

With a smile he means to be reassuring, Beyond ensures Amane her mentor has finally found happiness. Miss Kwon never uttered that word. She talked of her son at lengths, of her faults, and in listening to her, Beyond saw the future he feared.

“She is fine. She lives in past she idolises. Of course, she’s fine,” says Beyond, bitterness now unveiled. The words escape him. “She abandoned her son, and still wonders why he never came back to her. He knows she’s living in Paris, you know? He’s there often. He knows the places she haunts.”

He averts Amane’s gaze, dreading the effect his words may have on her. Her voice rings, finally. It’s marked by a certain nostalgia. “She’s an intelligent woman, Miss Kwon. But she always wanted to be perfect. I know those kind of people. It’s hard to appear perfect. They waste all their energy, and forget to love the people they love.”

“You seem to know what you’re talking about.”

She gives a little smile, childish and wounded. “Those are the people I love.”

“It takes courage to start loving those who deserve you.”

Noises kill their conversation – a man putting his weight against the double doors, slamming them open, and the thunder his voice makes. “It has NOTHING to do with him! No way I’ll let you slender me, Yagami!” Of the two men, Coil is the one producing all the noise. Yagami maintains that quiet elegance around him.

“This is not the place. I simply wanted to assure you these tactics won’t intimidate me, Coil. As I left you a written note explaining you everything in detail, I would have appreciated you returned the favour. Public confrontations serve to humiliate, don’t they?” After draping his vest over a chair, he bends for a swift bow. “I apologise.”

Amane manages a polite smile, as some overpowering emotion is dulling her eyes. Ever the megalomaniac, of course Coil is making the show about himself. Yagami sees a conquest in it, a revenge, a masterpiece he is about to bring to life, or something equally insane. _The clothes are signed Misa Amane, though. They are excluding her from her own creation._

“He keeps making me the villain here,” says Coil. Nothing in his attitude hints that he dislikes the part, though. He seems rather amused.

No words of support come from Amane. She arranges a theatrical dress on a mannequin, and with a veiled expression: “I want honesty tonight. Not perfect. You can do that. You don’t have to get along, so don’t talk to each other if it’s easier that way. We followed your lead, Eraldo. You told us the theme of water pleased everyone. And now, I understand Yagami disagrees. Will this prevent you from participating tonight, Light?”

“No,” Yagami replies at once. “I would have preferred to be informed beforehand. That’s all.”

Coil rolls his eyes. “You’ve got to admit, Yagami, you’re the one at fault here. Who’s even afraid of water?”

“I’m not afraid. I tend to avoid baths and water tanks, and you know why. You did it on purpose. Well, enjoy the show, Coil. I’m not Ryûzaki, I won’t fall. He was a dreamer, you know. They don’t survive long.”

Coil observes him at lengths before offering his answer. “Some do.”

It’s cold, calculated, cruel. Yagami averts his eyes.

“You miss the point, as always,” he says, and after asking Amane which outfit she wishes him to try on: “I have a clear idea of where I am going, and you’re not part of the picture anymore. You have no ambition. Revenge is not an ambition, it’s not even a motive.”

Light Yagami’s voice doesn’t miss a cue, yet indisputable traces of venom seep into the melody. Once again, Beyond is reminded that horror does not stand still beneath a perfect façade. It’s bound to escape, and it will not keep a silent elegant poise doing it. _You should have travelled, Yagami. It frees the mind._

“You’re in for a bet, Yagami?” Coil tosses nonchalantly at the model after a strained silence. You could say that he is bothering Yagami on purpose, or you could admit that Yagami seems to enjoy the game. _He misses L._  “If we win tonight, I’ll bend the knee. I will gladly crown you with the others. I will bury the best friend you killed.”

“This is your belief, then? It’s a disgraceful way to ease your sorrow. You should honour the dead, or forget them altogether. As for Ryûzaki, I’d advise you to forget him, his cowardice, and the art he was too weak to create. I learnt from his death. I won’t dwell on it. Please, do yourself a favour. He was too frightened to live. He doesn’t deserve anyone fighting for him.”

Yagami grabs the outfit Amane hands him and passes the doors, leaving only the fragrance of jasmine and rosemary as an evidence of his passage. Ill-fitted scents, for a man that wields cruelty as easily as lies.

_We all felt your authority, though. I’ll grant you that._

 

## L

 

 

Nothing in Takada’s attitude hints that she has a heart. In that, and in some other ways, she resembles L. She looks like Light, also, but Light needs to give his priest smiles to mingle in the crowds. Takada wears a smile as a predator flashes its teeth.   
A career in fashion does that to you, your body turns into artillery. The finest kind of weapons. _Give Light Yagami some years, and he will cut and claw like the others. Though he might surprise us yet…_ Prodigy Yagami hides a graveyard beneath, scenarios of what Light Yagami could have been; he will smother parts of himself at will, and he is bound to ever please. Someone like that may never miss a step, and always smile the right way.

Hung on the wall behind Takada, a work of art reminds Lawliet of his priorities. Ansel Adams’ Moonrise has the majesty and inexplicable beauty of a picture that could have easily never existed. The legend says Adams caught the decisive instant seconds before it was forever gone.  It’s beautiful as a fateful meeting. The day had been bleak and devoid of art, and he captured the moon on his way home.

“Lawliet, poor Lawliet, I can’t read that stare. Either you start talking or I’ll have Teru walk you outside. He’s charming, but not the best company.”

Takada’s tone draws a faint smile from L. She wears her pained expression as elegantly as her Saint Laurent suit.

They’re facing each other in the busy little universe that is the Angels Agency. Fourth Floor. Takada’s office. The White Room, the models call it. He passed a little assembly of models before pushing the door. Light was nowhere to be seen, and when L asked about him, they said he seems to avoid the Agency these days.

“It’s too white in here, he must hate it,” L told them. He wanted to see offense in their eyes at the careless mention of their role model. As always, the models did not disappoint.

“You’re not one to talk for Yagami.”

L couldn’t tell who raised their voice. They all have dull, uninteresting faces under the ordinary lights, so it doesn’t matter.

“You’re quite right. The only one allowed to talk for Yagami is Yagami himself. How odd is that?” L stared until half of them averted their gazes. “I’m just telling you. He hates white, and that disturbing shade of purple you’re wearing as well. Now, I wonder why he doesn’t come more often just to see you all. Perhaps he has better things to do.” _Taking pills by the dozen? Hopefully not._ L entertained the thought that Light was sitting in one of London’s charming parks, reading refined American poetry. “But I understand your passion. He’s such an inspiration, isn’t he?”

The instant Lawliet claimed his muse for himself during that interview, he became the unwanted admirer all models dream of meeting but will scorn in public.  L has to admire that twist in the plot. _You’ve quite a bunch of devoted followers caught in your web already, Light._ But none of them would extend a hand for him. Come weakness or old haunts, Light Yagami would have to hide so as not to be thrown away like some dusty old jewel.

Ever delicate in her frustration, Takada taps her manicured fingers against her desk.

“It’s as I told you over the phone. Coil is a pathetic man, but then again most fashion photographers are. He has no interest in sabotaging our show. I won’t replace him now.”

“Did he ever suggested an idea that was remotely interesting?”

“Actually, he did. A marine theme, the sea, the idea of drowning. Amane was rather enthusiastic about it.”

“…Water, then.”

“Water. Tell me, Lawliet, do you intend to tell me anything interesting at all? I have a modelling agency to manage, and an editorial to write.”

Her smile is composed of a terrible disdain. It isn’t aimed at L, it isn’t aimed at anyone in particular or perhaps at everyone at once.

“The show, it will be perfect,” Takada continues. “I expect it to be. Luminous, with a touch of Amane’s deliciously horrific deliriums. People love that, it appeals to their fantasies of what fashion should be. A world without rules. That’s false, of course. Few arts are as orderly as fashion. But they don’t see that, under the layers of eccentricity.”

“That’s why I should have been your creative director,” says L, and he claps his eyes on the statuette perched atop of a monstrous pile of paper. It’s an angel. It held a sword once, but it’s gone. “You know it should be me.”

“But it’s not. What are you going to do about that?” Takada glances at L, then at the angel.

“What I should have done long ago. Attend a Fashion Show. Do you have any photographer backstage?”

“I didn’t want any,” Takada replies warily. “Amane is always there, and she forgets herself when cameras are involved. She needs to stay focused.”

“Deities won’t publish any backstage photoshoot, then,” L declares, staring.

“I won’t hire a man who refused an offer and then comes crawling at my feet,” Takada says coldly. She has standards. For her, for her colleagues, for the world. “That’s so unlike you to beg.”

“You know me well.” It doesn’t have the ring of flattery. “I’m not begging, I’m offering my loyal services. You can only win here.”

“You’re the most impolite man I know.” She lets silence reign for a minute. Her voice takes over soon enough. “Although Deities would surely benefit from the change of heart of L. Lawliet.” She rises up, and walks past him to the door. “Be there at ten. And…I may be too hopeful here – be discreet. ”

 

*

 

As cameras go, his compact Pentax is the most loyal of companions. It’s another sort of photography; wild, and spontaneous. It doesn’t let him change the settings, or create a message, it doesn’t let him think. For the backstage photoshoot of the Wammy’s annual fashion show, it’s the Pentax he brings.

When L enters the dressing room, he finds Amane cheering her models on in her inimitable style.

“Darlings. The London Collection has been dull. Models walked the runway like zombies – pretty zombies, which is an aesthetic I fully endorse, but still! People slept through catwalks, and even photographers suffered on the sidelines.” She has a sparkling smile for L.

“This is terrible for our art, but great for the Institute. They will not see me coming. And you, you will remember everything dear Kiyomi told you: stand straight, and hide your smile. No one wants to see your smile on a runway, but hopefully you’ll get to smile after. There is a party for all of you. Okay?”

They all nod, a perfect chorus. Amane has the rarest sort of power – obedience by love. It’s also the most terrifying of all. Blind loyalty. She does not seem aware of it. L hopes no one ever tell her. In a soft ruffle of laces, she minces to his side.

“Does Kiyomi know you’re here?” she asks petulantly. Her enthusiasm is an armor of its own, and harder to pierce than most expressionless faces.

“They all know I’m here, save for Coil.”

Misa gives something of a grimace. “You should have accepted. I can’t get over that lost opportunity. You remember how I told you I admired your pictures last winter? I already wanted you for the show.”

“And I got the hint, Miss Amane.” _I had no reason to accept then._  

It’s like coming back to a place he’s been evicted of, to a paradise lost. Any place you left in hope it’ll pray for your return is a paradise lost. Backstage, the lights are gentle and revealing. They’re all being interrogated, the models and the artists and the designers. Only, it’s discreet. It’s subtle. It’s the moral equivalent of playing never have I ever – secrets are given, never stolen. When L shoots the models, it helps their confidence. They throw smiles, sometimes, and hide their faces lazily as a tease. The photographer offers them that, a minute of childish play before the show. They deserve it.

He spots Light, offering courtesies at the centre of the room. In the eyes of the other models, he embodies a desirable future. So many of them aren’t here for art. There is no art in modelling, that’s what they’ve been taught. No creation, only diligence and sacrifices and dependence. Light Yagami, the model, is powerful. It’s the man beneath, who doubts and shields himself, but they will never know that. And does it matter, really? Light needs their ignorance to cast his spell, and they need his tale to soldier on.

Beyond advances on him, too sophisticated in his vest of red velvet. He exudes a bizarre confidence, and he has an eyelash curler in his hand. L takes a step back. _You’re never too careful._

 “I thought you were dead,” L says mercilessly. A wolfish smile dawns on Beyond’s face at the remark.

“Not quite. I’ve visited an old friend in Paris, drank too much, pondered just enough on my future. You should have come. You shouldn’t ignore your mum like that. I mean it.”

“If you want her as a role model, go ahead. I don’t mind, B. You have that insufferable childishness in common. Some people find it charming.”

“I told her about Yagami, you know. ‘ _Here’s the next face of Calvin Klein_ ,’ she told me. And she thinks you have marvelous taste. Then, she made a comparison with her that I found frankly distasteful, although I did laugh.” He smiles fondly at the memory. “You have issues, Lawliet, but now I know where they come from.”

“It’s not the first time you talk to my mother.” Numbed by Beyond’s conversation, L allows himself a glance at Light. Ice cold anger gleams in his eyes, electrifying. It fails to impress Wedy, who nods and shrugs coolly.

“True. I don’t know, I was entranced. It’s hard not to be a little charmed. Look at him, there. Same technique, only he wears Acqua di Gio, not Chanel.”

“How long is he going to last?” _He is pale._ “He can’t go on like that.” _Sick. It’s not fitting for a model, Yagami. Do you eat at all?_

Beyond runs a hand, nervously, through his slicked-back hair. “Until he decides it’s over, I guess. It only just began for him. He will win and he will end up on the list of the top breakthrough models this season. You shouldn’t be waiting for him. It’s like living in the past. Nothing lasts in this world, make the best of what you have.” The words are delivered at a quick pace. He turns his head away from L. “He’s too ambitious. Your help, your protection, they’re obstacles in his mind.”

Was the Law student he met so eager to represent Prada, or Chanel, or even Amane? _I made him that way._ Light might lose, but he will surely win. In either cases, L’s fate remains the same. _I am condemned to watch in the audience._

Someone taps his shoulder, demands a picture. He obliges, for the light is giving its best today and he has to honour it. It used to be so evident, to him, the way life plays out. Everything was written in clear words and lit up in black, white, some murky colours merging in ways he could predict. His trouble was reading people, but even that never lasted. He learnt the rules of human nature, applied the formulas. It worked just fine. There are more intricate matters; jealousy isn’t more complicated than alchemy, and even love has a code. It used to be clear. Obsession never blurred his vision. It was not a flaw in the plan; he waited for it, he held the door open.

His body is aching, not for capturing Light’s body on film, not for having him at all. It’s an instinct of protection. Light should remain untouched. _The world ruins him. He is so pale. How is he fooling anyone today?_ That’s a muse, someone who can’t live an ordinary life, and is afraid of the bleeding artists need to create. L takes a step in the direction of Light. He wants to cradle, protect and kiss him. He wants to scare everyone away, so they can talk alone. He wants to create methodical, mad art with him. He had sprayed Light with bullets-like flashes, some metaphorical death L inflicted as a test. _He could shoot me with a bullet of his own. I’d keep it._

If their mutual affection is measured in looks they can’t hold, and words left unsaid, imagined touches and the persistence of their beings within one another…then, that strange affection is immense. And blinding too, merciless as the insomnia they have in common. _Maybe we’re heartless, and we love each other for it._

L doesn’t hear the careful steps before the ring of Light’s voice draws his reflection to an abrupt end. “May I have the pleasure of a portrait?” He could be asking for a dance, or a kiss. “Or would you rather steal it while I’m not looking?”

“I’ll take your picture. If you so wish.” It’s impossible to think of a quip. This new form of fascination, the power and all the mystery of it, none of it disgust L. It silences him, however.

Perturbed, Light studies him extensively. “I would have me pose before the folding screen here, if I were you. The patterns will glow in the light, and contrast with the white of my shirt,” he says, expectation evident in his tone. Light always sounds softer beneath the veneer. He’s younger then, even more beautiful. He flashes an airy, boyish smile because L follows his advice. That might be the heart-stopping bullet L waited for.

After the shoot, L tells Light he’ll develop the picture when the show is over. They should meet in the darkroom of the Institute. Light’s eyes gleam at his solemn tone. “It’s our promise,” insists L. He doesn’t know why he says that. The words escape him, and the result is worth it.

With the tip of his finger, Light skims the surface of the Pentax in L’s hands. “I do love promises.”

## LIGHT

 

 

His father’s watch is the most precise in the universe. It rings at 3pm sharp, a hateful melody really, the sound of duty. Exhausted by the backstage preparations, Light laid down on a dressing room couch. He only dreamt, didn’t sleep at all. Sleeping implies keeping a distance from your being, a pause in existence. Light dreams as you embark on a journey; it feels real, so it is real.

Rising up slowly, he deplores that dreams are considered the weapons of the weak-willed. Those who dream can be powerful, and the dream the mind crafts so carefully isn’t less real than the lie our mouth throws nonchalantly in real life. Yet, it the common opinion that lies belong to reality while dreams are excluded from it. It should not be so evident. They all want their dreams to become true, when they already are. There is another reality beneath his closed eyes. Happiness has a taste as distinct as honey. It’s sweet and beautiful and unforgettable. He’s always enough, there. Make your dreams tangible, and the mundane horror of real life will be bearable. No less absurd than the promise of peace after death.

An interesting fact – mirrors and reflections can’t be, in a dream. They’re simply not there. Light never misses their presence. He knows he is perfect; it’s a dream, why would he need a mirror then? However, now is reality, as they all love to call it. So, he grabs the Adderall and confronts the glass and smiles in a way he hopes convincing.

He recalls someone saying that to him: you’re too superficial. That is not true. Light relies on his reflection, on the person others choose to see in him. He relies on mirrors. What sort of looking-glass logic is that, to deem him vain when he only cares for the inverted image of himself, for the person seen through the eyes of strangers? He uses that prejudice to his advantage. No one fears the pretty haughty model; that’s good. It will fall on them like a thunderbolt, the realisation that Light Yagami is an artist too. They’re the superficial ones, to fall for that trick.

The calmness of the dressing room shatters briskly, much like in a dream. Though the people are louder than the ones his mind creates. A shame. He slips a word of comfort into Miss Amane’s ear – it will be perfect, said in all honesty.

She gives a half-reassured sigh. “You’re absolutely certain the glass cages of water won’t distract you? I have a fear of heights myself. Fear does that to you, it paralyses you.” She catches Light’s arm so he doesn’t escape. It’s a habit of hers. “I should have told the models, I know... I wanted it to be a surprise. Will you forgive me?”

The last words fall pathetically. Light plucks her hand off his arm. Her rings are cold, and numerous. A superfluous accessory, rings, only there for distraction – don’t look at me, admire my hands instead. Though Amane’s rings have horrifying shapes, skulls and dark roses, but still manage to inspire more refinement than Coil’s.

“You can count on me. Don’t you know that?” She should trust him, and refrain herself from nursing him. Her concern is an offense, at this point. “I have my ways with fear. Trust me, you will be surprised of what I can accomplish.”

He turns on his heel, leaving her to care for someone else. It’s tiring, to care this much. She should waste her energy elsewhere.

*

Naturally, Lawliet spots him and only him amidst the little assembly of models pacing backstage. He seems nervous and somewhat threatening in his walk.

Light doesn’t turn around and looks at him in the mirror. “You shouldn’t still be here. You’re not authorized.”

“Why didn’t you tell Coil to change the set-up?” L says. Fear sharpens his words. “You have every reason to be unsettled by water after what happened. It was a cowardly move from his part. Why didn’t you say anything? He could have changed it still. I’m sure Amane would have jumped on the opportunity to move her show to some deserted asylum, or something equally charming....”

 _Don’t you believe in me?_ “I adored water once,” Light cuts in, and he finally can face L. “I can pretend to love it again. I won’t fall. Not now. I believe…I believe that I can do it. Coil could have keep that victory away from me. He didn’t, because he knew no one could replace me.”

“Or he is certain you’ll fail.”

“It’s only water. It doesn’t bite, and all its power is useless when it’s restrained. I had a bad experience with it, yes, but it’s nothing I can’t endure. Really. You’d rather believe Coil than me? You should be cheering me on, Lawliet. You should be here for me.”

“I know how you work. You hatch the most absurd schemes to avoid facing yourself. Coil is not the villain of your story. He never wanted to sabotage the show, only you. And wasn’t that pleasant to have some archenemy reminding you of your moral qualities?” He heaves a long sigh before uttering the most terrible words in the universe: “I can’t believe in you. Not entirely.”

 _Why? Coward._ “It’s your duty as an artist to encourage your muse.” A shiver on the last note, but still, Light saves his composure.

“You left.”

That moment, in Light’s eyes, seems decisive. He breathes.

“I left Lawrence, the impure artist who loved me in a cage. You can resent me for that precisely. Or thank me, maybe…You may be desperate now, but you’ll merge your sadness with beauty. You do that in art. It’s protecting you. That beauty your mind produces in the light…the result of your hands mixing chemicals in the dark. Art, your art changed my life.” Light feels his breath quickening, the sound of his own voice comes with a headache. “How can you forget that? I will never forget it. Are you afraid? Are you finally afraid of me? ” Then, slipping out two photographs from his pocket: “Your art and I? How would you say…? It’s forever.”

For one terrifying second, beneath the rich backstage lights, Lawliet’s lips seem to quiver. Light doesn’t know what to say. This is the first time in a long time that someone occurs to him as a tangible reality.  

Lawliet only stares, with in his eyes the sort of desperation he tends to mock in others. The faint noises around them recede, and the world listens to their strange silence.  

Without a look at the refined silhouettes, slowly emerging from the dressing rooms, Light grabs Lawliet’s shoulders. “Take as many pictures as you can,” he says, and leaves him there, alone, awestruck.

It’s as if Light has stolen the photographer’s daring, then. To attest to that, a newfound courage leaping into him. The show begins, Amane flutters her eyelashes and wishes good luck.

A step. Nausea taunts his body, but Light resists. At either sides of the catwalk, distorted sounds of water cascading down into the glass cages, he puts these at a distance too.

Beneath him, his feet dare move in defiance of his mind. That’s for the better. _It’s so unlike me to let my body guide me_ , he thinks, in the neutral tone he has for strangers. No trace of a shiver trailing down his spine, and his knees never bend. That means Light trusts his body to keep him from the fall. It feels like a small victory, to finally trust his body. Mind absent, he is fixing a light in the distant horizon, latches on to it desperately with the dedication reserved to prayers and hopes. He thinks of a bathtub. He hold onto the light, keeps the desperation from his gaze.

Light had prayed a hysterical prayer in mind that night. Water clawed at the dead flesh, and Ryûzaki’s eyes…dead eyes longing for heaven’s lights. Dead eyes fixed on the ceiling. _He is drown, he doesn’t deserve it please choose to revive him,_ that old thought comes back to him but he focuses on the shimmer at the end of the catwalk, and he walks, if only to prove Lawliet wrong. He thinks of all of those he is proving wrong. He thinks of Soichirô Yagami, and the country he fled away from. He thinks of his lies, those that started on the aircraft.

Light parades down the runway knowing he is reaching for the thing he desires most, and it’s neither victory, revenge nor peace. It’s salvation. It’s rebirth.

Who are they all seeing now? No one. They are entranced by the clothes, stained glass patterns and endless laces and tight-fitted jackets with only one sleeve. The designer and her careful hands have worked to craft a tale. But the richest fabric is just that, a fabric, if no one wears it. And Light is the only one who can elevate it to a work of art – or so he believes, and make them all believe. They don’t see him, no, but they drink the fable he tells. Who are they all seeing now? A seller of stories, enhancing human creation, someone special. Light thinks of art, the illusion he is selling, how proud he is that they all believe it.

He feels Sayu’s presence, how her hands are held together. It doesn’t matter that she isn’t really here. _I need to focus._ The airy texture of the clothes, his skin under the spotlights, he thinks of that. The artists and the photographers, how he is used to them. It helps. He carries on.

Only the light, alone in that blur of faces and flashes, is real. Sometimes the light flutters and the water crashes against the cages. _It wants to escape._ Theatrics, it’s only that, pretty illusions won’t carry them to paradise. It takes a presence to impress an audience.

So he stays present.

He is creating art. He stops being a butterfly or a pretty bird reciting words, at that moment, he is more than himself. The puppet breaks its strings. They’re all there to see, and they applaud the feat.

*

Nobody sees him lying his way out – it’s an urgency, he says, I’ll be back. As Amane is seducing the audience with a counterfeit smile of her own, he runs. Amane has no trophy to cradle in her arms yet, still, he knows. He knows victory, it tastes sweet as relief. _Of course we won._ So he escapes to the darkroom to meet Lawliet and tell him about it. He promised.

The realisation of their promise is the beautiful note you remember from the song. Isn’t it? _Even he will be proud._ His heart is revengeful; it pounds, and pounds against his chest, a revenge for all the neglect. This could be a dream, Light is clever enough to imagine it. This could be dream, he realises under the marble arches.

This could be a dream and he would love an evidence that it’s not.

It comes. In dreams, after all, plans and promises unfold flawlessly. _A promise is a promise._ The darkroom stares back at him, desperately empty. “Where is he…?” Light hisses in defiance of himself. He has to clutch his heart, it seems, so it doesn’t burst out of his chest. “It’s the pills again. I really need to stop –“

He cuts himself, turns around. “Why that silence?!” Light feels the distinctive, lingering eye of a photographer on him. Yet…it’s…

_Not really as promised._


	11. Model

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO! I am really excited to finally post this. I post the last two chapters together as they are really tied together. Sorry for the time I took sharing this with you. The epilogue will be up very soon.  
> The end of the story was the only part I had planned from the beginning and did not really change. I love it that way, and I hope you'll enjoy it as well. Thank you for your support and love! It's also the last chapter with POVs, the next one being only Light's and the epilogue is written differently.

* * *

 

_Only to live, to live and live! Life, whatever it may be!_

**_Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Crime and Punishment_ **

 

* * *

## NAOMI

The show ended, and the party started whilst in the perfume-filled room upstairs, a jury of aesthetes got on dissecting Misa Amane’s collection. It has to be revolutionary enough, to grant the Wammy’s Institute its long-awaited victory. It is all a mystery to Naomi, the art beneath cleverly assembled fabrics and accessories. She has seen the magic of it, though. She has seen the models perform their tour, and she doesn’t want to forget how their silhouettes gave birth to the lifeless pieces of silk and velvet.

She feels ecstatic, mesmerised, charmed like a child ambling out of the Big Top. A spell has been casted on her that she doesn’t want to see vanishing in thin air. It will disappear. It’s an inevitability. Here’s the downside of art, it allows reality to slap you in the face.

She is lucky, for once. Beyond has a trick to revive the illusion. “Let’s share a dance. The music is special tonight.”

It’s not a lie to persuade her to rise up from the chair she retreated to. As they grace the air, Anna’s notes snake their way into the minds of dancers, carrying with them a long lost, beautiful melody. The partition has been deciphered just in time, the notes she hid so cleverly, and all her untouched emotions.

Naomi feels cleansed. _It’s a partition made to chase sorrow away._ And yet, it did not perform miracles. Its creator still disappeared in the end.

She takes Beyond’s hand and she sees his smile. They dance humbly, in awe of the music. It’s not a mad rhythm moving their bodies, it’s not a song they can make their own. The composition is guiding them with its comforting notes and hopeful tone.

“You’re silent.” Her voice doesn’t break the spell, and a high note acts as punctuation. “But you aren’t thinking either.”

Beyond’s eyes close, as influenced by a vivid emotion. “I thought…maybe this is a happy ending for her. I mean, she should never have died…that should never have happened.” He looks at Naomi, then. Really looks at her, with unmitigated attention. “But now, we can correct the mistake.” She understands that “we” means “you and me”.

“You can’t revive her.”

“She doesn’t need me to be alive,” Beyond says. He respectfully keeps his voice beneath the music. “Right now, right here, it’s her command that makes us dance.”

Realising the truth of his words, Naomi nods.

He explains solipsism then, how one’s mind is the only place that is absolutely, beyond any reservations, certain to exist. “The rest could be all a dream. You, that song. The crowd. The faintest trace of eyeshadow. All my memories of her.”

Naomi only responds with silence, thinking about the drastic change in Beyond’s attitude. She reads confidence in his words. He means what he says. _He hasn’t changed, he is showing his true colours._ It’s clear to her at that moment – they’re both more themselves in the company of the other.

They never lose track of the rhythm. Nothing is allowed to cast its shadow over the music. “It’s almost reassuring.” Naomi voices her thoughts at last. “It’s soothing to imagine that – to think of life as a long, intricate dream we all share. I’m not certain why.” _There is relief in absurdity. If nothing makes sense, nothing matters, really._ Someone must have said that. She can’t have come up with this on her own, can she? She thinks about Mihael and Wedy, how sincere they sounded when they praised her empathy as a gift that could create art.

Perturbed, Naomi recalls the sad and short existence of her first writings. She has been a child and a writer, once. A lonely girl who filled her diary with stories of other people. Her own life made her uneasy. It was easier to invent some – the mad creative lives she could never experience.

The diary was lost in one of her family’s numerous travels. Abandoned in another empty house. The stories remained, safe, caged in her mind. She did nothing of them, she only kept them jealously for herself. They were, by all accounts, unfit to be shared. Where she got that strange idea was a mystery.

For the first time in her life, she questions that choice.

How many people could her words have saved? No, it shouldn’t be important, the exact number. Anna’s partition only saved Beyond, yet it shines and she wants to keep it close to the stories in her mind.

After the crescendo, Beyond allows himself a furtive smile. “So… The thought that life might not mean anything, that we are not all here for a reason…that pleases you?”

“It doesn’t please me exactly, but I can find comfort in that. Think about it like this: if you have no fate, no mission to fulfill, you’re completely free. You can be anything you want. That’s a relief.”

Beyond squeezes her hand tighter, and with a little laugh: “I had a feeling you’d see it that way.” She has never seen his brown eyes shining like this.

“But you don’t agree. You don’t value freedom.”

“It terrifies me.” He pauses, looks away as they dance without thinking about it anymore. “Freedom, really…is a frightening little concept. Look at me. Why did I enter the Institute? Because I was a sad small thing and the only living adult who showed me respect happened to be its director. I wanted to please the big man. Mr Wammy never demanded that from me. But I felt it was fate. I had to honour his kindness.”

He sighs and, in an amused tone that does not have the right ring: “So wrong! So, so wrong. Art made me miserable. It ruined my self-esteem, and I could see it, I felt it too clearly. And yet…I was so caught up in the competition. I was so dependent on the praise… that I held on to art. I held on to it fiercely, stupidly. I should have chosen to be free.”

Naomi feels lighter. “You’re not the only one. I chose to be enslaved, I think we all can make that mistake one day. I chose to live the life my parents wanted for me. A nice dollhouse life as a detective who never gets to experience danger. This is not what I truly wanted but…I was afraid to disappoint. That’s stupid. In the end, I became someone else. I was forcing myself to live. And I disappointed them more than I could imagine.”

“Same story than me, in reverse. You should have been an artist. I know, I know, it’s not what you dreamt of. You wanted risk. Stuns and freefalls. Accidental fires in your own flat. Creating is dangerous like that, trust me,” Beyond says softly. He smirks then. “It’s not too late for us, is it?”

“Never too late.” Naomi smiles in return.

They move apace with the music now. Time doesn’t freeze for them. It’s absent. They’re sharing sentiments in a universe that seems to revolve around them.

Naomi wants to etch the last notes in mind, lest she never get to experience that feeling again. _If only you could catch moments._ She’d never let them go. She would pin them down like dead butterflies, but just like butterflies, they keep flying away. They’re beautiful that way.

 

## LIGHT

 

He had no smile at the ready for L. His expression barely shifts when he turns to Coil’s icy smile.

“Well-played, Yagami. Well-played.”

Coil is posted right in front of him, tall and artificial in his Armani shirt that smells of Cologne. If Light closed the door of the darkroom on him, he would not have to endure his presence any longer.

The numbing, overwhelming pain throbbing at his temples occupies his mind. He doesn’t even considers the option and leaves the door open.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Light manages. His throat is dry, his voice comes out broken. “We have a speech to give. For the victory. We should go back to the atrium.”

“Oh, I am supposed to be here. You’re my star, my model, and we won. I have been looking for you and here you are, hiding in a darkroom. That’s not a place fitted for the likes of you. You belong in the light. I know we had our rough patches, but I want you to share the victory with me. Up on the stage.” His voice is laced up with sincerity, and still…

He has the most unbearable simper.

At this point, Light doesn’t want to believe him. It’s Lawliet he is supposed to be facing, anyone else represents a waste of his time.

So he tells Coil he has affairs to settle first, a call to make, someone to see. He finds an excuse. It doesn’t matter which. Coil narrows his eyes – grey, full of doubts. “They will announce our victory. I thought our prodigy would want to be there.” He studies Light for a second, and, in a mocking tone: “Oh I know. You don’t trust me. You think I’m mad at you for winning this. You think,” he adds with a smirk, “I want to hurt you.”

Light feels his own body stiffening against his will. It draws an exasperated sigh from him that Coil can’t interpret correctly. Good.

“I can’t trust anyone.” Light has to force his voice.

It’s only then that it occurs to him he might be in danger. Not because of Coil, not because anyone except himself and the medication he poisoned himself with. He remembers the leaflet with all the undesirable side-effects – chronic trouble sleeping, loss of appetite, false sense of well-being. And then, for those who kidded themselves further: chest pain, occasional hallucinations. Dry mouth. Blurred vision.

“It’s not personal. No one can trust anyone, really. Everyone dies in the end, everyone leaves everyone alone.”

“You could try at least. Trust me as an artist to another…artist. You were almost one, tonight. You should have seen the looks on their faces.”

It’s flattering, but it disgusts Light that his heart warms to the compliment. His legs seem to melt beneath him. He rests his hand upon the varnished door, fingers splayed, he has to press so he doesn’t fall down on the ground.

“Everyone dies. Even artists.” It’s said in one impatient breath.

“You can’t say this, Yagami. We live long after we die. That’s the promise of art. Why would we bother with it all otherwise?”

Light gives a half-shrug. “I don’t want to argue. Is that all you had to say?”

The Institute is a refuge for the part of himself he created to please everyone. For the Wammy’s children, Light Yagami succeeds and shines and never ever fails.

So he stands still, looks at Coil in the eye, keeps focused.

Nothing bad should happen here, not in the Institute. It is the stage where children turn their ideals into reality, and sadness, sorrow, pain only exist in the paintings, hide in the corners of photographs. For all of them, strong, messy feelings serve art or should not be expressed at all.

Light respects the Institute and what it stands for. He doesn’t express anger when Coil forces his way into the darkroom. He tastes blood and understands he is biting his lip. Forcing himself to silence. _L is supposed to be here, not you._

“It’s not all. I have been unfair to you,” Coil declares, turning around to face Light again. “When Ryûzaki died, I lost a part of me. He was someone I shared art with. We inspired each other. But he was dead before that, when his protégée killed herself. I despised poor Anna for destroying him, for imposing exile and misery upon him. I transposed the same idiotic feelings on you. I thought I was righteous, what a joke. You were right – not on everything, you can be one insufferable, hypocritical brat. But you were right, revenge is not a motive.”

He closes his mouth, debates something internally. “I can’t help but notice, you seem to have overindulged on the pills lately. Is it because of me? I have been cruel. Cold. Did you suffer from it?”

Light still reads cruelty in his words. He can’t tell whether it’s real or imagined.

“There is no need for that. I used you like you used me. We’re even.”

“Why rewrite history so soon? I come to apologise. You don’t need to pretend –“

Light squeezes his eyes shut. _You should not be here._ Like some fever, adrenaline blurs his vision, hinder the rational flow of his thoughts. No control and no shield. Even the lies are damaged.

“I never cared about you! Why are you talking in my stead? I never cared. I just wanted to win. I won. It’s perfect.”

He is frightened by Coil because, presently, everything induces fear within him. Why? It’s equally frightening, not to know.

Coil drops his hands upon Light’s shoulders. “Of course you cared. And I cared as well. You’re such an interesting specimen, Light Yagami.”

“Lawliet is coming.”

The corner of Coil’s mouth twitches. “…Seriously? I took pictures of you all night, and that’s all you have to say?!”

“I am grateful to you for that.”

Coil takes a step back, looking obfuscated. “You’re not. You flimsy, crafty little liar. We’re all nothing to you. Why do you mention Lawliet? Why does he have to do with anything? You think I’m in love with you or something? We’re not all like him. Falling for pretty models. They’re all so obedient, that’s what he likes…But you, you’re not like that, aren’t you? You want something from him.”

“Please, leave. You should really leave.”

“He says art is a religion. I agree with him. We starve and suffer for art, after all. We’re all just praying for inspiration. What do you think he sees in you? A muse, an angel, a god? That’s what you loved, uh.” He has a roguish smile that might have been charming, once, a long time ago, before it turned sour. “And now he wants you to bend. There isn’t a game he can’t win. This makes me think…I thought you two were broken up. So what did you plan to do in this darkroom? Who would have known…we all die young in here, and the next in line is Lawliet.”

“I have no intention to kill him. We have our differences. But I prefer him alive, even if I must be his enemy.”

“You never resented him? You never had the feeling you were a trophy? Oh, it’s always forgivable if it’s an artist. A muse is artist talk for possession. A sugar-coated, convenient lie. Artists and muses aren’t human, are they?”

Light gives Coil a defying look, because he can’t let him think he is right. _Prove him wrong. Think! You were human with L. You existed. You felt good._ He finds nothing to answer, and in a wash of cold terror recalls how their nights unfolded. Lawliet latches on to his muse and finds pure inspiration. He needs the muse to breathe, to breathe again. Light indulges most of his needs, he is truly devoted, because being wanted is so sweet a feeling. A thrill, really.

But they were good together. Doesn’t that mean anything at all?

Perhaps to alleviate his frustration, Coil continues. “Think about it. When did the _man_ started to own you? I know for a fact that’s what you all fear. To be ordered around. To become so abstract as  a human, you can be photographed whenever _we_ please. It’s exciting at first, and then…well. Anna hated it. She told Ryûzaki once. Cameras seemed to her as violent as weapons. She felt like a thing before the lenses.”

Light detects an opportunity to vex him. “You’re mistaken. She loved Lawliet’s portrait of her. The Swan Song. He keeps it. Maybe if you were all more talented, we’d love you more.”

“Wow. I’m not looking for _love_ , Yagami. None of us is,” Coil sneers, rather breathlessly. He might not have watched the runway show at all and jumped on the occasion to drink in the dressing rooms, Light thinks bitterly. The colour is high on his cheeks. _And I doubt he is blushing for me._

“You think Lawliet deserves it? Because he’s so talented, you’ll not only pose for him. No!” Coil slams his camera upon a table for emphasis, leaves it there and takes a step in Light’s direction. “You’ll _love_ him. It’s a fucked-up way to look at the industry, you know that? So, lover boy, why hasn’t Lawliet published his pretty pictures of you? Why did he even let you go? You know him. You knew his reputation before even meeting with him! He never, ever let anyone he loved go. You’d have the worst claw marks on you. He can’t love and let go.”

The remark makes Light’s stomach stir.

“He doesn’t love me. Right.” He heaves a sigh, but it seems he is gasping for air instead. “Didn’t it occur to you that perhaps I don’t care? I am more than all of you can imagine. What are _you_ , without me?”

His lips crinkle into a smile. He doesn’t repress it.

“You don’t even have photography to keep you from being a sad, pitiful drunk.”

“Shut your mouth. Who do you think you are?!” Coil gives a push that causes Light to slightly lose balance. His hand fumbles for something solid to grasp and it’s unfortunate that it finds the camera exactly as Coil inflicts what he believes is his own coup de grace.

“You’re nothing! What did you think? You’re just one in a thousa –“

Light doesn’t expect Coil to collapse after one strike. _I always knew where to aim for critical harm,_ he thinks as his eyes vaguely follow Coil’s fall.

He resembles a worn-out ragdoll that can’t be sewn back up any more.

## NATE

 

There is a fullmoon floating in a sky of deep black above the stage. Artists gladly endow the moon with all sorts of powers. Perhaps it is why Misa Amane manages to beam at the expectant crowd, in spite of the absence of her creative director.

She winks at Kiyomi Takada, whispers a handful of words to Light Yagami. Both are well versed in the art of looking perfect, though Takada alone seems to remember the techniques. Yagami is pale as a sheet, lifeless as some resin figure ready to be painted.

“Does it feel normal to you?” Nate asks, with a tug at Mihael’s sleeve.

Mihael seems to understand what he means. “Yeah. Why can’t I see L anywhere? He should have found a way to creep his way up there, creative director or not.”

Nate looks up at the stage again. Amane is beaming at Yagami now, holding both his hands in a gesture of gratitude. The moon shines brighter. Lawliet would claim it donned its beautiful ceremonial colours for him. But he isn’t here to boast, indeed.

“Something is off. Coil isn’t here either.” 

“Like I care. It’s L I’m worried about. I hope he hasn’t killed him.”

Nate judges it best not to answer. Mihael is a riddle that takes long to decipher. You have to be careful and mind your words, all of them. That volatile young man makes Nate feels like a pyrotechnist. He used to be wary of lesser risks. Some people just makes danger worth experiencing.

“Come. I’m not drunk enough to listen to Yagami right now.”

Nate clumps along as Mihael threads mechanically to the bar. The festivities in the Wammy’s atrium possess the attributes of both a high school party and a formal dance. It’s Nate opinion – a stranger’s opinion, that they should pick one theme and stick to it.

Then again, he is not an artist, and he has no sense of style.

Mihael nestles his drink pensively, his expression absent. “L might have been watching from the wings. You bet he loves to spy on Yagami from where he can’t be seen. Coil’s absence is stranger,” he says. He frowns as the waitress hands Nate his glass of milk.

“Maybe he just wasn’t interested in the prize,” Nate says, vaguely bored. “He never seemed to care much. Doesn’t he loathe Yagami?”

 “I’m not sure of that. He was behaving strangely with Yagami, but was that hate? You can be very cruel, to those who have dug deep into you. It’s a defense mechanism. Eraldo Coil might be dubious as a human being, he is an artist. And Yagami attracts them all. Even me, in a sense, you’ll understand how soon enough. They don’t love him. They want him. Lawliet would be the exception. You know Dorian Gray, right?”

Nate raises an eyebrow. “Hmph. Of course. I know the artist dies.”

“You’re such a… robotics student,” Mihael sighs. “It’s _symbolic_. You’ve got these two aesthetes, and Dorian, okay? I simplify things. Basil represents redemption, and the promise of an art that is devoid of immorality. He strays, yes, but desires to repent for his sins. Lord Henry calls himself amoral, but Basil believes Lord Henry is just fooling the world. He’s right. He is an immoral, selfish bastard who envisions art as something challenging and dangerous and… impure.”

Nate considers this. He fails to place all the pieces, and that sparks his interest at last. “I can see neither Lawliet or Coil as Basil.”

“That’s normal. None of them is Henry either. Think about it…Henry is influencing Dorian. He has power over him, great power of influence. Dorian is almost an empty shell, filled with the ideas artists have of him. Dorian is art. What we have here is the reverse situation. Lawliet is persuaded he made Yagami that way. Ambitious, damaged…sickened. You want my blunt opinion? Yagami made Yagami that way. Yagami is his own Henry, and his own Basil.”

“Who would have known?” Nate snickers.

 “I can sense great irony in your tone, Nate.” Mihael cracks a smile. At last. “All I know is…I’m grateful to him, in a weird way. He killed the Lawliet I once knew. The all-mighty, sorrowful artist. He’s less powerful now, and he’s known happiness. I think. He’s less of a fantasy made for me. I owe that to Yagami. Crazy, uh.” 

“If his schemes somehow benefitted you, then I’m reassured,” Nate replies softly. “Not grateful. But reassured.” 

They share drinks and a few silences like old friends. It happens sometimes that you lose someone while you still have them in sight. You see both of you drifting apart, and there’s nothing you can do about it save for hoping the current will bring you back where you belong – at each other’s side.

Truly, Nate was never in it for the art. Mihael trusted him with Anna’s partition. This, more than anything else, changed his life. He gives Mihael a shy smile when an overly enthusiastic Beyond marches toward them.

“Don’t growl at me just yet, Mihael. I’m just here to thank the little one,” he chimes in. “For helping my dear friend. I know she is grateful to you, and has a good laugh watching us all dance in her honour.” He tilts his head up to the ornamented ceiling. “I did my best, Anna!” he exclaims, shaking his fist.

“There’s no need. I did it –“

“For someone else. Story of my life. That doesn’t make it less valuable.”

It’s Yagami, perched up there on the stage, who speaks then. He has raised his voice for the final words of his discourse.

Mihael groans as both Beyond and Nate crane their heads. “Really, it’s going to be the same old –“ He mirrors their gesture, and sees it too.

His hands are grasping the microphone but it looks he would still fall down if not for Amane’s arm circling his waist. He is sickly pale beneath the glowing moonlight.

And he can only steal a few glances at the audience.

He can’t bear the crowd, Nate reflects. That debilitating anxiety, Nate knows it too well. He finds peace in the presence of others, as long as they have previously shown they understood him. Otherwise, any face may shelter a threat. Could Yagami, the people’s charmer, be afraid of the lingering looks too?

He must be seeing ghosts – imagined expressions, people glaring. Disappointment on the faces of those he enchanted some time ago. They look at him and feel disgusted. Betrayed. _Is that it, Yagami?_

If so, riddle solved. Yagami is, indeed, his own worst enemy.

“What happened to him?” Beyond asks, flabbergasted. “He was spectacular earlier, on the runway. I couldn’t tear my eyes off him…”

Mihael frowns as he detects the note of concern in Beyond’s voice. “Add that mystery to the ever expending list of Yagami’s absurdities. Where is L when we need him? He’s in charge of that list.”

 _Riddles contain their own resolution, Mihael._ No one with a keen eye needs a wannabe detective to solve Yagami. His trick is to discourage anyone from trying to decipher his code.

Presently, he is not in a state to coax the audience into believing him.

He nearly trips on his way down the stage. There is a second then, a decisive and evanescent second. Their eyes meet. Nate suffers from an acute pain right in his chest, and he knows he’s caught Yagami off guard. Damaged…sick…full of despair. Perhaps, in the mist of confusion, he has no choice but to yield and be honest.

For some reason, Nate feels nauseous, as though he finally earned the privilege to peer into Yagami’s psyche and all he could see were shattered pieces of glass, tossed around like confetti.   

 

## L

20 minutes before.

 

Love only matters if it’s non-negotiable. Compromises subdue love, L knows, and looking back at his empty existence, he realises sacrifice is something he always longed for.  The absolute abnegation of oneself. Love is not lavishing a photographs in longing looks. It’s not a walk in the park. Not for him, no, it needs to be the purest form of art. It means nothing to be with someone, if you’re not going to admit that.

As L moves higher up the hallway, hurrying past the marble pillars, the image of Light parading the catwalk shines brilliantly before his eyes.

He almost forgets the haunting sound of the fountain playing in the distance, passes more sculptures of angels and demons and creatures of grey morality than he can count, never stops thinking.

Light must be waiting for him.

L leans upon the old, mysterious door, pushing it open. Inside, he faces a familiar darkness; darkrooms have discreet lights to protect the art that is born here.

He lingers at the threshold, slowed down by some bad omen. This is the same room he remembers from his time at the Institute. It has been left untouched for years, but it seems all too vivid. He can recite the names of the chemicals lined up on a dusty shelf above the sinks. It’s smaller, even somber than the darkroom at his current studio. How could he even work here?

Near the drying racks, devoid of pictures, the elegant outline of Light Yagami stands still, frozen, and horrified. In his hand, a camera – digital, brand new. A tool for art marred with traces of uncoagulated blood.

In his eyes - wide, wide eyes, the peculiar gleam of fear.

Light lets out a muffled gasp. “You’re here.”

Now perfectly accustomed to the obscurity, L’s own eyes are drawn to the body. _I come for a promise and I step into one of your nightmares._

The clearest thought hits L then: I failed. I failed to leave him untouched. A frisson goes through him that perhaps means regret or anger. He cannot be certain. With Light, his feelings cease to be frank and within his reach. With Light, his feelings lie, undecipherable, in-between the most ardent states of mind.

At least, he doesn’t stop to admire the scene. He could. It’s easy to be beautiful in a ravaged landscape. Battlefields and deserted cities attract photographers. They are a well-intentioned crowd of flies, longing for the smell of blood, the sight of flesh.

It’s where Light is better than everyone else. Admirable, really. And so indecently skilled. With the contained hysteria his face betrays, he is harder to look at than the unburied, dead man.

The door closes with a snap. L creeps deeper into the room, his fist clenched around his Pentax.

“What happened? For the love of God, Light, what have you done?”

Light fixes a point on the wall. He could as well be elsewhere.

“Talk to me!” L shouts. His own voice echoes back at him. It’s strangled, distorted and it holds a shameful note of terror. Unsatisfied, he tries again: “Light. Answer me. What have you done?”

This time, his voice comes out flat. Dead.

“Self-defense.” Light is waking up. _This is your next brilliant idea, then._ “This was self-defense. He came and it should have been you –“

“This does not justify murder.”  

“Don’t interrupt me! Let me finish the story, would you?!”

They stare into each other’s eyes for a minute of stunned silence. L notices water filling Light’s eyes and how sickly pale he looks. The scene possesses the attributes of the perfect photograph, no doubt.

Though L feels too numbed for his fingers to ache.

Light’s lips part again. It seems to cost him tremendous effort, but L finds he is not sorry at all.

“We-we had a discussion. I said if we won this…and we will win, I know it. He said he would apologise to me…I deserve that. So, when I saw it was him instead of you, I thought I should listen at least. I needed closure. He is a human being after all. We’re all so complicated. He should just have apologised, but - He went aggressive. Too noisy. I couldn’t bear - I wanted to be left alone until you came, but I couldn’t tell him that of course –”

“You murdered him because you couldn’t bear his voice. That’s what you did. You know, I can believe that. That’s just how deranged you’ve become.”

Light looks down at the body.

L is reminded of all his broken cameras, how Light eyed them after they crashed down. He has the same look in his eyes now.

“I have had a problem for a very long time. You we-were right about the pills. I fully admit that…still I _know_ it was self-defense. I wouldn’t kill someone unless they threatened me. You know what kind of man he was! What should I have done? I felt unsafe. I protected myself.”

_Past tense already? You’re quick to bury him._

_You should have waited for me._

L doesn’t voice any of this, the doubts and the resentment. It is a strategic decision, or so he believes.

Light moves an inch closer, averts his eyes from the body, this time. L doesn’t have the instinct to step back. “I shouldn’t have let you in. You would never have seen the body. You would never have known.”

He reaches for L, slowly, mimicking the pace of his own voice. L refuses to move. His body yearns for the familiar touch of Light Yagami brushing his neck. And Light must know this.

“I’m sorry for that. I am so sorry of all of it,” says Light. He sounds sorry for himself, too.

L challenges his own skepticism. He has to believe Light – for himself, for his existence to remain livable. Fear grips at him, parches his throat. His chest rises and falls apace, as he breathes the smell of chemicals and blood and sees in a flash the first day he met Light.

_Why did I let you in?!_

He remembers Light in his mantel, royal blue, and that scarf he tied so carefully. He could as well have tied a rope around L’s neck that day.

“I’m sorry,” Light says yet again, and L imagines he is apologising for all of this, for his crime and his cruelties, for being such a poison to anyone who cares for him.

Finally silent, Light huddles against the photographer, the one that he left alive. Fingers dig into L’s back, slowly trace the bones, and a jagged breath teases his neck.

“How did it look, that scene…me with the camera, towering over the corpse of a defect artist…” Light has never been so warm, but he can’t breathe properly. L feels his eyelashes as they flutter against his skin. “Was it beautiful? You call them – these pieces of art in the ordinary world, you call them decisive instants. Was it one…?”

As fear recedes, pieces slide into place in L’s mind. Light is branding him. He needs a partner in crime, someone to turn shame and blame into reassurance. An alchemist who makes a good memory out of a tragedy.

 “A murder is a horrible thing,” says L sharply, and he grabs Light’s shoulders. He keeps him at bay.

Light’s panic fills the room then. He is immobile and terrified and very much alone. L can see this. He stands still, as he must.

“Hideous.” Light casts his eyes down. Shame is eating at him. “Hideous.” His voice has dropped to a whisper. And then, his expression changes like it always does when his tragically brilliant mind detects a way out. “We can correct this. Together, maybe.”

“This will always have happened, Light.”

Strangely, looking at Light right in the eye is painful now. L feels as though he is walking on shattered glass, but he forces his eyes to meet Light’s.

“You can’t go back,” he says. Now that he sees Light, his model and muse, L knows exactly what he should do. _It will sting, but you’ll thank me later._ More than ever, he is winding up an automaton, the odd one in a marching band of blessed ones. Light went as far as using Adderall to achieve true perfection, a purity in his eyes, he felt he could never reach on his own.

He was always the one who couldn’t forgive himself a simple misstep.

 _“_ You wanted him to die.” L weighs his words, each of them. His purpose is to free Light of the cage he stuffed himself into. “You wanted to crush his skull. You wanted me to find him. And you wanted me to comfort you.” He closes in, so he can see Light’s lips as they quiver with rage. “This is all according to plan. Isn’t it?”  

It’s all a necessity.

They spend a minute in silence, watching the other defiantly. L manages a calm composure.

Light points a trembling finger at L, and it’s a sign he will get better soon - he is at a loss for words. He is the shy prodigious child who thought the truth was always his enemy, he is the terrified young man with inexplicable dreams and the sorrowful liar, a coward who works at his own despair.

He is Light, more Light than he ever was under the spotlights.

“How can you – you of all people – Try to hurt me that way,” the young model hisses. “Aren’t you supposed to help me? Oh, I’m so distressed! Helpless at last! You were always here for that. Isn’t this what you wanted too? Protect the muse of all harm, except if it comes from you. Are you enjoying this? You sick, perverted bastard. You have no right. I admired you, so why…You, of all people – I admired you -“

Light cuts himself off with a sob. That isn’t enough to silence him. He opens his mouth to speak again. It’s vain, as all his body allows him to do is cry.

His standing is rocky, and his hands won’t stop trembling.

“You’re right. You’re right. I hate this, L. I must be rotten. Maybe I’m cursed? Or rotten, that’s it, that’s the core of my personality. Rotten little Yagami. Why do I always do things like this? I killed two men. You remember him? Ryûzaki. I never intended to…but I wasn’t even sad when I died. I was so, so relieved. People like him, always whining and crying, they disgusted me. Coil…he was aggressive and obsessed with me. It scared me. Both of them were a burden to the world. I don’t want to be like them. Is that why I kill them? I hate this! You won’t help me now! You would help a good person. You won’t help me. You won’t…”

 “Don’t tell me what to think, Yagami,” L snaps, seizes Light by the arms and slams him against the wall. “I will help you if I want to.”

“Why? Why would you ever help me? I don’t deserve your pity. Two men died because of me – and I feel so relieved that they are no longer – I’m not the martyr you can use for inspiration. Some people deserve to be alone.” He says this with a drained laugh, a sad mockery of Light’s shy chuckle.

Up until that point, L has been mastering his emotions. A barrier collapses in his head, though his heart beats a cadenced rhythm. Reined feelings bite back sooner or later and it’s not pretty when it escapes the comforting realm of art.

“Why, why would you help me?” insists Light, who visibly longs for a comforting answer.

_Because I failed._

_Because I owe you._

_Because I have never seen you that honest._

Simple truths remain impossible to voice. So L recites, and manages not to stumble over the words:

“You won’t survive if I don’t fix this. No body, no proof, no proof means you can craft a convenient tale that won’t lead you to disgust yourself.”

Light is staring. His eyes aren’t staring at some, far, far gone point anymore. They are piercing right through the heart hammering in L’s chest.

“I existed before Coil and Ryûzaki and you, Lawliet. I will still exist after you all die.”

“No. Light…All you do is bury yourself, again and again. You can’t reinvent Prodigy Yagami to infinity. You know this.” L seizes Light’s hand without thinking. “Something…is spoiling you rotten. You’re not wrong about that. I want to know what it is. I want _you_ to know.”  

Light stills himself. He even controls the pace of his breathing. It’s not a childish need to hide his emotions. He thinks showing his fear will spoil the moment. _I have never known you this honest._ It is seemingly absurd: honest Light, whole and sincere, is found in the broken pieces.

Light stares at their intertwined fingers, sighs…

He removes his hand, briskly, as though burned.

“My discourse. For the victory. I must give it.”

“Go. Convince the rest of the world everything is fine.”

L needs solitude. Above all he needs Light to leave. He has a look in his dilated eyes that frightens.

In one swift movement, Light pushes himself away from the wall and soothes his shirt of black silk. Not one visible spatter of blood.

Light moves freely again, passes swiftly beside L. “I will convince them. Trust me.” He sounds sincere. He sounds like he could actually forget all of this. This is utterly disturbing, but L did always marvel at the glimpses of Light’s polished instability. He would be a disgusting hypocrite to hate him for his slippery sense of morality, when he was the one feeding it.

As soon as he is left alone, L passes a trembling hand across his forehead, steps towards the dead man so he stands over him. He murmurs a word of excuse, perhaps. He forgets it at once.

In spite of his best efforts, cold despair surges through him, petrifies his muscles. He falls on his knees. Coil passed away with his eyes open. He seems aware of what L is about to do. _I thought dead eyes told nothing._ L finds comfort in that; at least, he is not lying to anyone. Beneath the hefty look of the dead man, his shivering hand grasps his phone.

He knows the number by heart.

 “I need help. Yes. How did you guess? Suicide. Not really. It doesn’t matter. He wanted to die.” L slips his free hand into Coil’s right pocket. It doesn’t take long for his fingers to meet the cold. L holds the knife before his eyes. Silence, and then, at once: “You’re right, he was armed. Well. Didn’t he deserve it, then? I’m sorry I got involved. In spite of the appearances, I’m not heartless. Yagami could have died! You know how he is…” A beat. “We have to hide the body. I’ll call you back. I am forever obliged, Mr Wammy.”

The narrow room that produced his first photographs will shelter one more secret. It seems to L that it has grown as high and intimidating as a church.

Doesn’t Yagami have the air of an angel?

If God exists, and if he has to defy Him, he will do so unapologetically, passionately, with the devotion reserved to the servants of art.


	12. Symbols

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was the epilogue and then I thought it didn't work as an epilogue so you get another epilogue (you follow me?)  
> Again, thank you and I see you very soon for the epilogue <3

 

* * *

 

We have not touched the stars  
nor are we forgiven.

**Richard Siken**

* * *

 

“That imbecile.” Takada draws out the word over and over. “That egoistical, careless imbecile.”

It has been a few mornings since the results, and Coil still hasn’t reclaimed the honours of victory. Anyone who knows him senses the catastrophe. He would never shy away from the sound of applause. It doesn’t matter who is clapping hands. _Artists would kill for that sound alone._ The thought draws a smile from Light that Takada can’t understand.

Behind her, enlarged pictures signed L. Lawliet lean against the wall, ready to be hung.

“You’re redecorating?”

Takada raises her eyes to meet his, startled. “You can’t recognise yourself on a picture, Mister Yagami?”

At first glance, he did not.

And then, there it is – that gratitude he fears so. He fights some tears back, and answers as coldly as possible: “He finished his photobook.”

“I was surprised he accepted to sell these pictures. I thought he wanted to keep them all for himself. It’s a beautiful photoshoot you did. Wedy did tell me about it, but I thought Lawliet deemed it unsatisfying in the end. I suppose he changed his mind after he developed the photographs…”

She shoots a look at the largest picture. “He really made a prince out of you.”

“I really thought he wouldn’t finish it.”

“But he did, in the end,” Takada says sharply, and she fixes her hair, impatient. “Are you with me, Light Yagami?” Her tone irks him. _I’m not a child._

“Y-yes. I was thinking. My apologies.”

“Oh. That’s certainly better than not to think at all,” she replies coldly. “Anyway, here is what I summoned you for. One of my models committed suicide. Yes, it’s common in the field, don’t bother with courtesies…It’s terrible advertising for the agency. On top of Coil’s disappearance…well, that’s something I could really do without. A victory for the Wammy’s Institute won’t be enough, I can sense it. Amane will benefit from it the most. Good lord, why is anyone in reverence of her?”

She seems lost in thought for a beat. Highly unusual, for someone so focused. Light shifts his position on his chair, feeling left out.

Takada snaps out of her musings, lifts her head, chin up. Then, at once: “The Angels need you in Paris. I need you in Paris.”

Takada soothes her voice to coax Light into accepting. _So humiliating._ And yet…Paris. The word carries a certain charm and leaves a taste of dreams. Sayu mentions the French capital in most of her phone calls. If your line of work is charming the world, you have to visit Paris once in your life. She is the one who says this. She is always so straight-forward.

“I will be there where I am needed.”

Takada looks satisfied with his answer. She doesn’t tap her fingers on her desk.

“Excellent. You know, Yagami, I had my reservations about you. You seemed to never truly listen to me. Some days modelling seemed to be a joke to you. Other times, you looked far too serious. I could never make up my mind. Is it real to you, or are we just characters in a story, is modelling the only fairytale you allow yourself? I still can’t decide.”

She licks her lips nervously, realises she’s talked too much and simply says: “Choose Paris. Our colleagues there are special. You will feel free.”

*

The photographer on the Vogue photoshoot is a stranger. He wields the camera fairly well, though he doesn’t seem to care much.

Between moments of absence, he recalls their blood promise, Lawliet’s diligence in erasing the evidences and it’s in these instants that Light feels truly, nauseatingly guilty.

He thinks of the very beginning, how soothing it was to be seen, wanted, understood. _Deceptive._ They’re always beautiful, the beginnings. It part of their nature to charm.

It’s the photographer’s curious voice that snaps Light out of his musings. “You’re the one who won for the Wammy’s, right? Amane’s muse.”

“I don’t work for them now, and I wouldn’t call myself that. I’m not a muse. Just a model.”

“Right. That’s not for everyone I guess.”

Light stares at him, abashed. _I should tell him he is wrong about me._ He finds himself muzzled. Nothing that falls out of his mouth is sincere, and this time, Light thinks it shows.

In his dreams now, he is working with Lawliet. They dissolve bodies at night – it takes a darkened room and reasonable amount of Sodium Hydroxide. People die around them. It doesn’t matter.

In his dreams, Light Yagami is a beautiful model with a dreamy, sad poet look in his eyes. That very look he thinks looks too natural on him. He gives interviews. Fans find him touching – oh yes, he has fans now. They’re not all well-dressed but you can actually see the effort. Light isn’t a designer, so he focuses on their hopeful smiles. They line up to ask questions to the strange creature of catwalks and methodic lights.

All they demand of him is to talk of Lawliet.

_The genius photographer that made you immortal._

All they ask about is Lawliet, Lawliet, Lawliet.

_The one who changed you._

He tries to escape the dream, which is foolish and vain. It’s not a dream at all, it’s a lust that lives within him. To be with Lawliet, he needs to escape Lawliet. To love someone, to really love someone, you need to miss them sometimes. _I need to see what he is about, without me._

See the consequences. Endure the feeling of guilt, the worst of all. It’s a knife flaying your perfectly hydrated skin. Guilt is a barrier between the person you thought you were, and the miserable creature you revealed yourself to be. Light cannot bear guilt, which is why he always trick his mind into avoiding it.

That renders any tentative of escape painfully, irremediably useless.

 _Overthinking again._ It’s Sayu’s sing-song lilt of voice he hears in mind.

“I need to leave.”

The photographer’s eyes widen. He will never be able to understand. He is, after all, only one in a thousand.

 

*

 

When L wants time to stop, he takes a picture.

And when he wants it to pass, he sings a song.

Light doesn’t know what he wants of time. How he wants it. To crush him to death or to preserve him for eternity.

On a small black notebook he lists the reasons he loves modelling. He stares, stunned, at the words. If he loves it so much, then, why does he sees the future as a wide, wide tunnel leading to nowhere?

*

A strange agitation lingers in the air, though they are all sat for drinks and laughs and good memories. Light restrains himself – he doesn’t nervously trace the rim of his glass, he smiles a bit, nods politely. He plays a perfect Light Yagami, the distant boyfriend, the prodigy redeemed in the eyes of L’s friends. A well-adjusted, modest young man. The role of his life.

The Jaberwock’s petulant waitress, Linda, treads to their table cradling a hefty bottle of wine. “For Mr Yagami’s performance,” she smiles softly. The liquid is deep red, made in France. Lawliet takes on filling the glasses. Light tries to fit in; he doesn’t hold his hand to say stop as Lawliet pours him wine generously. He fully knows Light is wary of the effects alcohol has on him – _why is he so determined to see me ridicule myself?_

L’s friends all warm up to him, one by one. Beyond eyes him curiously and Mihael finds his ambition relatable. Moreover, Light brought the Wammy’s Institute, the closest they have to a home, its shining victory at last. And for the rest, Naomi and Nate, well. He is an interesting specimen. They love to analyse him.

He is a riddle and a wonder and that’s the cover he loves best. Japan’s favourite wunderkind, finally found and loved here in England.

All can go well, now.

As for Coil…The truth is that he doesn’t remember any of it. His mind suppresses all the hardship, sleepless nights spent grieving, the doubts and the anger. It erased everything and appointed the destructive instinct of all artists as the culprit. _Ryûzaki and Coil both wanted to die, one simply chose my own hand as a weapon._ This is the belief he holds on to.

Light sees Lawliet, sat nonchalantly at the end of the table, and he remembers why he has to leave.

 _If only he wasn’t an artist._ Lawliet doesn’t speak to him now that he’s seen him cry.

Artists all want him to fall, to be their inspiring, ravaging myth of a person. They want him vain. They want him arrogant, distant, a beauty who calculates the flitting of his eyelashes, has only mysterious smiles, is never shy, is never just tired and sad. A beautiful bird who loves his cage, sings melody meant to impress artists and is only needy when it’s expected of him.

His sister says he is sweet. And L says this too. But not enough.

Lawliet snaps pictures of the table, and Mihael doesn’t even flinch at the sight of the dreaded camera. Most of the time, Light doesn’t bother to pose. The light loves him, as they say. He never needed to charm it.

“Drop that damned camera and sing us a song, Lawliet!” Beyond shouts after his third glass of wine.

Lawliet smiles. It’s a fond smile. It’s a smile that says sweet and childish things, like “it’s a memory I will cherish” and “time could stop here” and “I’m home”.

“I always intended to sing,” Lawliet says, rising up. The rich and warm artificial lights flood over his sharp features. “I have a song for our dearest wonder boy.”

Light stares in silence, stiff on his chair as the others cheer Lawliet on. Even Mihael, who would gladly bleed for a song in his honour, applauds.

“He has really improved. Or maybe he is pouring his heart into it, for once. He is better like that,” remarks Naomi, before turning to Mihael again to discuss some book writing project of theirs.

That detail makes Light’s stomach churn: they are not listening, not truly. Otherwise, how could they remain impassible?

The notes seep into Light with the intention of possessing him, or so he thinks. In all his confusion, it seems to him Lawliet devised a plan, and that his melody is a curse, a spell, some sort of spirit sent to inhabit a body Light Yagami doesn’t deserve anymore.

_He is my enemy. I made him a murderer, now he wants me to beg for his silence._

Suffocating under his own venomous thoughts, Light jerks up to his feet and darts away. He feels the heavy looks on his back. It’s counter-productive, really, as he yearns to escape even more.

“He is singing for you, Yagami!” Mihael calls out. He seems almost desperate and, for the first time, Light shares his sentiment. “It’s all for you, so why are you leaving?”

As Light reaches the door, he hears Naomi doing her best to appease Mihael. He passes the threshold. Their distant voices and L’s song all die at once.

Around him is a doleful night – devoid of clouds or stars. Looking at it, you’d doubt the existence of anything; your wishes for the future and all the stars, perhaps even yourself. _Exactly what’s needed for me._

His finger flicks a small bottle open. Empty. Of course. It’s his own trap he has just fallen for. After the runway show, Light discarded the remaining pills and kept the bottle as a reminder of his own weakness. You need objects, sometimes, to have a sense of reality.

It’s just like the photographs he pulls out of his pocket. His eyes fall on the caption beneath the shining moon. It never happened before. Light always finds himself entranced by the moon Lawliet captured that night – that intimidating, mysterious star lighting a velvety night.

The caption is unfinished; a handful of letters that have no meaning on their own, Light concluded after searching for some hidden meaning, months ago.

“You knocked before I could finish. And then, well. They were gone.” 

Light looks up to a grave looking L. He is almost beautiful like that – dark and broody and so distinct from the rest of them. _He seemed so light-hearted earlier. Was it all for show?_ Aching with shame to think he doesn’t know L all that well, Light forgets to answer.

“You seem…um, moony,” L says after a bit. Light looks away, petrified with shame. With a faint smile soothing his features, L steps closer. “Oh Light, I love you like that. This is my weakness – I tend to love you. Especially at your worst.” Light detects a strange sweetness through his low voice. “Are you afraid? I took care of everything. No one can enter that darkroom except me. I had unlocked it for you that night, but it’s usually inaccessible.”

Light raises his eyes and gains clear conscience of his heart racing wildly in his chest.

“You don’t regret it?”

L lifts an eyebrow in response.

“Letting me in,” Light adds in a strangled, small voice. It reverberates off his mind; his own shame, the sound of bitter failure. “Opening the door of your studio, that first day.”

“I found what I longed for. Didn’t you?” L brushes a strand of hair off his model’s face. Light’s eyes follow the gesture attentively. “Good company. That’s what we both wanted.”

“I failed to fulfill that promise. It could have been so simple.”

“You never promised it would be simple. We aren’t simple people. I…experimented on you. You were out of my reach, the only light I could not master. It was irresistible. No… I did not even try to resist it. I wanted you. And you…what you were after –“

“Don’t. You are analysing me again. That doesn’t end well. Let’s just say I was bored…and you were a cure. You can abuse medicines.” Something of a childish chuckle. “I have a history of that.”

“I know,” L says and it seems that he does know everything, after all. “I haven’t been loyal to you. I did worse than control you. I allowed you to control yourself. I let this happen,” he adds, hinting that he always wanted a tragedy to fell down on them somehow. It’s too hideous a truth to be voiced, even for L. “But now you have me. I’m here. I will wash these hands. Both our hands. You can forget them, Ryûzaki and Coil. They won’t ever haunt you again.”

“People leave a void when they leave. You can’t just forget them. They stay.”

If murder did crush the naïve child inside him, a remnant of Soichiro Yagami’s diligent son, it did so quietly, with as little disturbance as possible. Light hates noise after all. His mind can fall apart softly.

L places a hand on the side of Light’s neck – feeling the pulse, tracing the lines he once longed to photograph. That familiar gesture eases Light’s heart. There is nothing quite as soothing as a walk into the past.

“The dead either stay with us forever or disappear completely,” says L rather coldly. “Coil is not irreplaceable. He was a fool with a death wish, and he would have taken you with him. We got lucky. I love to believe we outwitted the Gods – or fate, whatever was keeping us apart. Our own childishness, maybe. All you have to do is wait. Let me do it. I have Wammy to protect me. I trust him, and you should trust me. Everything will be fixed. Light, believe it, that man died and it is not your fault. He wanted this to happen. He wanted to end it. You know this, right? You’ve seen it in his eyes, I know you. You can’t let people like him ruin your life. You have a higher purpose.”

“I had one in law, and I quit. What if I never should have been here?” Light recites the words as if haunted by them. He tries to focus on L’s fingers ambling along the curve of his neck, so as not to yield to panic again. It works. “What if this happen again and again and again?” 

“You won, the other night. You won for yourself,” L says, and he removes his hand. His tone is sharper as he continues: “That world of fantasies, unreachable dreams and strange people, that world is made for you. It could be yours. You could reshape it, you could belong. Fashion is never the same, it can’t stand to be just one thing. It’s part of its very nature. If there was a world for you, here it is. Your paradise. Don’t you dare run away from it.”

Light steals a glance at L, notices that passion in his eyes that Light envies sometimes, and it is his impression that they will find each other no matter the odds. Their damage and the cruelty they can only handle if it comes from the other, unbridled art and mad promises, all of that binds them to one another, and Light doubts he will be able to see it solely as a miracle and not a curse as well, one day.

 “Play a game with me, would you?”

They stand close in the night and the only illumination comes from some sort of lantern-styled lamp hung near the Jaberwock’s entrance. It’s a perfect place to share a good memory.

“More secrets, Yagami?”

“Just complete the sentences for me,” Light says, his voice strangely youthful. “I can’t seem to have a clear idea of my own mind right now.”

“I won’t take any decision for you. Or rather, I know this is a terrible idea to decide at someone else’s place and I am likely to do it if you let me,” L replies quickly. He yields before Light’s long sigh. “Alright, what’s on your mind?”

“I’m afraid. But I trust you with your art. I know it will show me the way, so…”

“The equation lays itself down. You, me, your art. It’s happy ever after,” L completes with an infuriating little smile.

“Someone died again. Because of me. I will try. I will try to be…an unreal person, someone who doesn’t exist, never feels anything, and works with no pleasure at all. I will fail. And the story will play the way it was always meant to…”

L doesn’t even have to think.

“Me, you, creating powerful, mind-blowing art,” he says softly. “Impressing everyone else on our way to paradise.”

“Impressive. Truly…what I expected. But paradise is not where I’m going.”

At that, L rolls up his sleeves nervously, offering his bare, damaged arms. It reminds Light addiction can take the convenient form of a person.

“Paris?” L says, his voice betraying a hint of disappointment.

“Paris.”

“Amane told me. It pained her. She sees something special in you. What will you do?”

“Do you want to know?”

L shakes his head, takes a few steps back. _He wants to leave now, before he cracks._  “You will write me some long, beautiful and frustrating letter that you won’t have the courage to give me in person. I’m willing to bet on that.”

“It will all be in the letter.” Light swallows, fights the tears leaking at the corners of his eyes. He has not right to cry. “All of it.”

“Then, grant the rejected artist a favour.” Light gives an imperceptible nod. “Leave your letter at my studio before you leave.” 

Absolutes have no place in life. Time has a precise measure only on paper. What’s a second in reality? Eternity sometimes. Light stares for one second.

“I will.”

L smiles, throws his keys at Light who miraculously catches them in mid-air.

“How do you know I’m telling the truth?” he asks, as L is setting off inside again, presumably to avoid saying farewell.

“You lie for petty things and you lie for ordinary matters. Which means you lie pretty much all the time. But I know you now. You’ll come back to me, it’s a promise. You keep your promises.”

 _I haven’t promised._ Light considers protesting, but his heart knows better. It knows there are other means of promising than uttering the word.

He promised and, like the wishes he made buried in his covers in Japan, the night alone is his witness.

*

Light does not wait for the day to rise. Unable to endure other people, he walks across deserted streets and passes abandoned houses; or so he thinks, but it’s London. Great cities like that, they never truly sleep. _Just another trick from my imagination._ Light cherishes the journey to the studio, however unpleasant. He longs for the familiar presence of fear within him. Fear is better than sorrow. Sorrow drains you and he needs to, at least, feel something.

It is a misfortune, to be too numb to even hurt. Often, Light has praised the suppleness of his mind, how easily it bent to avoid the obstacles. Along with his natural gift to please the crowds, the denial of his own overwhelming feelings is one Light’s greatest abilities.

He wants it all gone, he wants someone else to possess him and force him to suffer at last. He brings terrible truths to mind: _I’ll never see him again._

_All alone in a cold, cold lavender-smelling room. You remember Japan? It’s waiting for you in Paris._

_He is the only one you can talk to._

_Leave, because he saw you cry. You can’t work with someone who saw you like that. It’s unprofessional._

It doesn’t work at all, so Light buries his hands in his pockets to meet the glossy surface of the photographs with his fingertips. They’re still here, that’s something.

The sight of the building parches his throat. It means it will be over soon. Two flights of warped stairs that make his gut twist. Usually. Not today. He feels so light, he doesn’t weigh anything at all.

It’s that moment of pure numbness before a life-changing choice. He lived through one and recalls a part of him died quietly that day. _Ryûzaki stole gifts from me before ending it all, my innocence and my pride._ Art took it all from him - so many excuses he devised and still partly believes.

The key fits perfectly into the lock. _Click_.

He opens the door. Then, there is a voice in his head, and as it beats in his mind like a pulse, he realises it’s actually on the stereo. A recording. He should have seen that coming from Lawliet; he might be a photographer, he has a movie star sense of drama.  

“…So here we are. Forgive the pride in my tone,” says L’s beautiful voice. Its notes come tumbling down on Light and he realises, horrified and alone, that he had started to miss it already. In other circumstances, the sound of that voice could mend the sorrow in Light’s heart, or at least, distract it for a while. There is a buzz in his head and his fists are clenched but he is afraid.

“If you’re hearing this, chances are incredibly high that I have been right about you for a long time now. Yes, this is playing automatically because you opened the door. Thank Nate for the installation – I couldn’t be bothered with the technical details.”

“Oh, Light, I was so sure of it! You won’t hear me sing one last time, you’d rather leave like a thief in the middle of the night. This is the clever choice. You don’t need another opportunity to regret your choice, don’t you?”

“I’m mad at you. It’s the right decision, but I’m still mad at you for leaving. To atone for this cruelty, you don’t get a present. What you get is an exceptional memory and I hope it will stay with you a long time on your journey far, far away from me.”

Lights wake lazily and scatter across the walls. L redecorated. The space of a heartbeat, Light is facing a multitude of mirrors.

Then, L’s voice rises yet again. “This, of course, is my gift to you.”

These aren’t mirrors.

“Photographs.” The whisper escapes Light and his eyes well with warm tears of gratitude. He should hate himself for it, but it’s too sincere a reaction to be regretted.

The unpublished photoshoots, a smatter of candids and some sophisticated shots Light doesn’t have in mind to place – all of them have been carefully kept beneath black and white frames, hung and assembled in some genius installation that leaves Light awestruck. The photographs slide in and out of sight, as they depend on the flickering, colourful lights to be admired.

Naturally, all of them share the same subject.

 “Photography requires a quick eye for truth. Sincerity in this world can only be found in the small details. Those we forget to polish, the improvisation in our long, perfect acts of a life. You freeze the actors in time. See the cracks in their game. Show them. Marvel in them. They all think I love to point out flaws. What they call flaw is the truth of what they are, and there is nothing quite as beautiful in this world as the pure, untouched truths. I need you. I believe you. I love you. They are sucked into the layers of ‘no this isn’t quite that’, ‘I meant to tell you this’, ‘I can’t put it simply’…There was a time in my existence where I thought myself cruel to break the lies. Maybe everyone, save for me, lived better with them. Lies taste sweet and turn a terrifying mess into an orderly cocoon. You did found a home in your web of lies, didn’t you, Light? Plus, I had personal reasons to hate lies, so…perhaps…my passion for the naked truth was selfish. It had nothing to do with art. Never. Then, like in the stories you pretend to scorn, I met you. Did a malicious fate sent you to unsettle me or are you a wild card in my predictable game? I have my answer. You have yours. Here is the only thing I will affirm: to truly love the truth, all it takes is seeing a liar in pain.”

L’s voice pauses, and at that moment all the lights radiate at once. It’s staged and it’s all a game Lawliet guided Light into, but it’s so delightful to play pretend. Warm, lustrous, comforting lights play and twist and melt on the many faces of Light Yagami, in a strange and unique appreciation of him.

And he is the only audience they have.

Enchanted still, Light notices a shadow. It’s dancing lazily across the wall. It brushes the pictures, plays with them a bit. Over time, his eyes get used to it and Light thinks it’s Lawliet’s shadow. Is is, after all, lighting the way, so Light sees the photographs properly. He could be imagining it.

“My gift to you is you. There are exactly 101 photographs of Light Yagami here, all carefully elected for the truth they show.”

“It takes 101 photographs to know you. You always wanted to be special, but you’re better. You’re the scarier, edgier version of special. You’re different. And the crowds will forever misunderstand you, because you are a kaleidoscope and people love simple gadgets they can solve.”

“It takes 101 photographs by the best photographer you will ever meet. You’re complicated, Light. You get on my nerves because I will never figure you out. You crush your own heart, sabotage yourself, muzzle your words and still remain the most selfish person I know. I reduced you to an inspiration. But you are _someone_. And you can tell your truths.”

 “We both thought being lonely was a genius strategy. And it was, would we have avoided each other. Now that we had a taste of that addictive madness we can share…I think loneliness might get to us. That bulletproof loneliness. Even we can be wrong, it seems. Though…I am childish and I don’t like to lose. So I’ll live. Surpass me, please, and don’t just live. Shine. Pose only for the best. Make me jealous.”

Light lets out a hollowed little laugh at that. It’s silly, since no one can hear him and he is standing alone in a room made for two. 

“You know where to find me when you’re done. I won’t move, so leave. Don’t change your mind.”

A thought hits Light that translates into a painful pang in his chest. It will be over, soon, now. He aches to stop time. _We used to freeze time together, this is what your art is about. I live forever in your pictures._

_How will I live forever if we –_

But though he doesn’t fully comprehend Light, Lawliet possesses an instinctive knowledge of him, and his instincts surely didn’t fail to tell him that Light Yagami will find a way out of any difficult situation.

So L doesn’t offer any sort of escape and the words fall, slow, inexorable beneath the poetry.

“Goodbye now, goodbye my moon.”

Along with the recording, all the blue, red, green lights vanish and darkness engulfs the studio Light has always known bright and hopeful.

Fade to black.

*

In a plane, we can finally overlook the world we are so frightened of. Light cherishes the trip – everything is still unreal and the memory of L beats in his heart, vivid as blood.

He has a sorrowful look in his eyes, and the woman sat beside him notices it. “Are you sad to leave?”

Light doesn’t have to think. “I am. But it’s necessary sometimes, to leave so you can come back.”

It’s a good omen that he does not lie this time.


	13. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (The prologue was L's POV, so the epilogue is Light's)

* * *

 

Poetry, dreams, desire, everything leads me to you.

**Johann Wolfgang von Goethe**

* * *

 

He seldom could sleep beside Lawliet. Light remembers how Lawliet gripped his arm once, foolishly hoping to pull him back, close to him again. He smiles like a malicious child in remembrance, but it's regret, not malice, he is full of.  _You were always powerless to make me stay_. The problem was simple enough: an idea haunted Light– the belief Lawliet was the one sending Light his nightmares, these awful glimpses of a depressing future.

It was nonsense, and it was cruel to slip away, out of their nights together as soon as he was given the chance, like a thief, a coward or a fleeting dream.

He understands now: it was all so L remained an enemy in his mind. He needed his lover as a very ancient enemy. Only an enemy could infiltrate Light’s fortress of a brain, only someone who was first a threat had the power, the opportunity and the position to become his friend.

He needed the nightmares to be L’s because they showed him the truth, quite mercilessly so. It wasn’t cold sweat and fever and a jagged breath. Well. It was, but with all of these unpleasant sensations came a near-divine revelation.

In his nightmares, Light fully _existed_. There was nothing real, no boundary of any sort preventing him from loving, breathing, talking as he pleased. Way off normalcy. 

Freedom, pure freedom, was ever the nightmare of his mind.

Conversely, his dreams were cruel mirages. Like well-coordinated stage performers, his father and mother and sister came in and out of them but never spoke to each other. There was, usually, nothing to say, nothing to add. Only a son and brother to love unconditionally.

In retrospect, he regrets escaping L’s embrace. He longs for the night, for the bad dreams where there are no rules to guide or smother him, where the landscapes are dark and the horizon out of sight. Where illusions are shattered and new hopes formed in the pieces. Where his thoughts are forever entangled with a man of genius. He is grateful for all the nightmares Lawliet cursed him with.

Light dreams again, that night in Paris, alone. It’s been two years of sleepless nights with sporadic dreams - sweet, sweet dreams.

_I wish for horrible dreams and old nightmares._

_There is something wrong with me._

The thought used to send shivers all the way down his spine. That, too, evolved. In the bathroom mirror, he can see his face where relief acts as a gentle light that softens his features.

**

Paris is bright and in brightness Light finds his old habits again. Though he has almost dropped the lies as defense. He survives on his good reputation alone – his ability to sell dreams extends to his own person. Always has. There isn’t anyone in Paris who doesn’t want to believe Light Yagami is the one he pretends and strives to be. Those who are wary of him tend to second-guess their own feelings. ‘I may have judged him too harshly’, ‘He is such a sweet young man’. It would be cruel to call him an empty shell. Light is a canvas. There will always be an artist or two to paint him to perfection.

Paris is a magnificent city with an architecture Light still finds marvelous. He detects a complex history beneath the veneer of luxury and, in all his egocentrism, he thinks of himself the same way.

Paris is indeed, the city he loves, but his heart is chained to London. Those bound in art have much in common with the ones that are made blood brothers on a battlefield.

He loved their dance and wonders how to ask for one more.

**

It’s Sayu who comes up with the idea during her stay in Paris.

“It’s been two years. London must have changed a bit.”

She says this with delight in her voice. He finds an excuse – too much work, a runway show to prepare, a photoshoot for GQ. Unfortunately, he knows his agenda by heart.  

He is too aware of his own lie.

“You’re afraid to go back?”

Light can’t answer. Sayu reads on his face that she is right.

_I am still so afraid, so, so afraid._

**

 

It’s a lovely sight – Sayu arrived to the café before him, and is already deep in conversation with Miss Kwon. Normally, Light would have planned more suitable activities for his sister than meeting with his manager, but she insisted, ever adamant to peer into his personal life. It’s a sweet habit of hers.

Miss Kwon notices him as he minces his way to their table.

“Quite the charming young man. Hello.”

For the two years they have worked together, Light has never known her unfazed. She lacks Takada’s nervousness – her brand of control is subtler, a better fit for Light.

“Oh. I thought I would surprise you,” he says, half-jokingly.

His manager gives him the usual, tender smile. She seems strangely fond of him, and in two years, she never once yelled at him in spite of her volatile temper.

“That’s one thing you’ll always be able to do. Nice shirt.”

“It’s last season.”

“I know that, Prodigy! It’s still nice. Beauty doesn’t fade that easily,” she says, gesturing nonchalantly towards herself.

As expected of her, Sayu drowns Light’s Parisian manager in an irrepressible flow of questions. She always was of a curious nature, a true adventurer, a bold soul who lights the way. Not the right way, necessarily – but she has good instincts, Light thinks.

She chooses flattery to get on Miss Kwon’s good side.

“You are so stylish. The mere thought of being seen with you makes my heart jump!”

She tosses a fond smile at her brother who watches impassively.

“I’m going to London next week. My brother wishes he could come with me, but he keeps saying he needs your approval.”

“Sayu!” Light exclaims. And, turning to his manager: “I would understand if you refused.”

Miss Kwon looks away and replies that she knows better than to refuse. Light thinks he knows what her secret is, but doesn’t dare confront her.

_“My mother was a model…”_

He knows the voice. He knows the tone. He can hear it in his mind.

 

**

He holds the plane tickets in his hand, a pale hand that quivers. He buries his false hopes of pretending: of course he wants to see him and London and the studio with the wall of photographs. Who wouldn’t?

Who would be so ungrateful so as to refuse the hand of fate…?

The best case scenario for Light would be to come to Lawliet’s gallery opening, to see him again just once and leave without a trace.

It’s an impossibility, not a scenario. By some impossible telepathy, L always notices him.

**

Lawliet offered Sayu Yagami her plane ticket to London. She suggested the idea. Can he be accused of anything? He hopes so. To a fated enemy, Light would come back.

Perhaps Lawliet doesn’t mind the compromise. 

He has embraced and loved and mastered lights, his art is as powerful as a ever, and beautiful too at times.

It's not for his art he compromises. 

_That - ...That's new._

**

Mihael’s quick eyes meet the printed article pinned on the Wammy's boards beside Artsy-tic’s last cover, an abomination with colours too bright for his tastes. He doesn’t dwell on that.

What his mind does linger on is, of course, the model. Back, really? Stories of his success crossed Mihael’s ears from time to time, but it seemed to him Light Yagami would remain some evanescent, unreachable star in his life. It seemed fit for someone like him, to leave and never be seen again.

This is why he gives a dismissive shrug when Mail asks him for his opinion.

“I don’t believe it. I choose not to, for my sanity. It’s enough that Beyond will be a _professor_ soon, thank you very much.”

_But it’s like this in a tale – the little red riding hood either dies a cruel death or is allowed to live. The truth doesn’t matter. People choose their side of the story._

 

**

One day, very late, Light could not sleep, so L told him about photomontages.

Two images are joined perfectly, they’re paints that mix up well, shadows moving together on the same wall. They’re lost within the other, forget their old meaning and tell a brand new tale together.

The secret is this: the images can be separated. They are not fated. They are not forever intertwined.

The images can exist on their own, but together, they are remarkable, exceptional, immortal as only true art can be.  

Light had loved the analogy. _I can live without him, but only with him will I get a taste of immortality._

**

 

Light halts his walking as they pass the gallery.

Sayu notices the name on the posters, and in a voice that is too soft for her, she quiets her brother. The wild London rain is pouring down around them. They are protected, they have an umbrella. Light has to remember this; the rain seems to seep into him. It soaks him inside and alarms his heart.

He grips Sayu’s arm. “I never intended for us to pass here. I didn’t want to go. Not now…”

He has no idea what he’s going on about then. It’s just words, hollowed words falling out of his mouth. Light refuses to meet Sayu’s eyes so he focuses on his sleeve. Silk. Sweet and elegant silk.

The silk is too beautiful for him, for his body, that pulsing, trembling, frail little thing. It’s all beyond his control.

 “I was fated,” he says as if someone had, indeed, set him up. “I can’t escape. I tried –“

Sayu cuts him off with a long, dramatic sigh. “You think too much.”

When Light raises his eyes to look at her, she is smiling. “You can call it fate, or maybe that’s just – that’s just _you_ guiding you where you belong.”

Light nods quite feverishly, with eyes now fixated on the gallery. _Art is everywhere and it leads me to you._

The fear possessing him is sickening. It alters everything he plans – his walking and the pace of his voice and the elegance of his movements.

Still, he takes a step, another, another.

Someone opens the door for him, someone with long, agile fingers and a voice he never stopped hearing.

“My most charming visitor. I was waiting for you.”

Lawliet winks at Sayu and points Misa Amane to her – “She’s there, as promised. You can meet her.”

It is obvious that Sayu would swing her arms and roar in triumph if they weren’t in such a quiet place. She practically bounces her way to the fashion designer, who greets her like an old friend.

“You didn’t need to bribe my sister. I would have come eventually,” Light tells Lawliet and suddenly, he is cleansed of fear.

“God knows how many years that would have taken.”

“Well. Don’t get used to me. I just came to admire the art. And maybe give those moon pictures back.”

Lawliet steps into Light’s personal space. “You just wanted to take a look at my studio, remember? So much for your - (with air quotes) - simple precaution”

“Ah, ah. Be careful, it’s easy for me to run away.”

“You wouldn’t!” Lawliet exclaims, faking offense. “Imagine it. You would look ridiculous, running away from an exhibit like you’ve been scared by how well-lit my portraits are. No one told you of the gigantic portrait of you I hung in my office, yet, I assume?”

It’s impossible to determine whether Lawliet is joking or not. Based on his knowledge of the man, Light deems it safe to bet he has indeed framed his muse up above his desk.

_I hope it’s the emperor photoshoot. I got to hold a sceptre._

The memory sets off Light’s wittiness. “I can run away slowly. Discreetly.”

“Then I’d catch you.”

Light shakes his head, reining in a smile. “There is no way for me to win. I see. You won’t get your moon photographs back.”

“Keep them. It’s your good luck charm,” Lawliet says sincerely. “It’s true that you can’t win, but remember this, Light: you created the situation.” His tone is playful again. “I would never trap you myself. Not unless I don’t have a choice.”

Light rolls his eyes but his face, lit up and hopeful, belies his frustration. “Don’t oversell yourself.”

“If it means you stay, I’m willing to bend the truth a bit.” Then, after a quick glance about: “Oh, everyone’s staring now. Curse our chemistry, it overshadows my photographs.”

Lawliet seems expectant. His hands go for Light’s waist, and Light wants to thank him for the gesture, which is utterly stupid and useless.

“So you’re stealing your own spotlight,” he manages, pretending not to cherish the familiar walk of L’s fingers tracing his bones.

“Don’t look so nervous, I won’t kiss you in public.” Lawliet sounds proud of his self-control. This is somewhat endearing – an uncommon occurrence for the man. “You might actually run away this time.”

“No.” Light says this quickly. He can’t think of anything to add, so he tilts his head up and plants a kiss on Lawliet’s cheek.

“You underestimate how changeable I can be.”

“Thank God you’re changeable,” L says in a breath. His fingers stab Light’s back – an unmistakable sign that his body too is aching for more, always.

Light pushes him gently away, pressing his fingers to Lawliet’s lips. “Not now. You have all eternity to kiss me. I want to see the exhibit.”

For a second, Lawliet stares, bewildered. “If so the Muse wishes.”

The loving smile he gives then, it says it all. For anyone else, they have no patience. Distances are kept, haughty attitudes are invitations to leave, never to play.

They overthrow each other’s codes and here on the stage, both forced to improvise, they find a partner in their enemy. Their hands find each other. They might part once more, but they know the way. For the present, they are dancing again.

_It wouldn’t be nearly as powerful on a picture, wouldn’t it?_

* * *

Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake

                                                       and dress them in warm clothes again.  
         How it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses running  
until they forget that they are horses.  
                   It’s not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere,  
         it’s more like a song on a policeman’s radio,  
                 how we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days  
were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple  
                                                                                       to slice into pieces.  
Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it’s noon, that means  
         we’re inconsolable.  
                               Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.  
These, our bodies, possessed by light.  
                                                                Tell me we’ll never get used to it.  
  
**(SCHEHERAZADE, Richard Siken)**

## 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *End credits rolling* Either Goodnight Moon by Shivaree, or Music People by IAMX or At Least It Was Here by the 88 because I wouldn't ever have made it without these songs giving me momentum!
> 
> The end was supposed to be very open at first but it felt unfinished to me, though I suppose you can always imagine Light did not stay in London like he wished he could. Or that it is all just a dream, ah ah.  
> In all seriousness, their journey is not over yet but as for the rest, I leave it up to your imagination. 
> 
> Last, but not least…(this is not a story about art without a cliché), thank you. All of you. Those who read and kept silent, the ones who commented from start to finish. The fanartists, I can’t thank them enough. I also want to thank the inventors of photography. I say this a joke, but seriously! If it were not for the daguerreotypes, this story wouldn’t have even existed. Crazy, right? Thank you Ohba and Obata for the madly complex characters. I also need to pay homage to the manga Paradise Kiss first. Without it, the story wouldn't have been what it is. It really formed me and influenced me throughout writing, if only for the ambience alone. 
> 
> Thanks to the fandom for sheltering me for a year the time I wrote this. I will treasure the good memories. Thank you for the fanarts, the love, the kudos. 
> 
> You can find me on [tumblr](http://capitaineblackbird.tumblr.com/), I'd be so happy to hear from you!! Don't hesitate to write to me <3
> 
> PS: to anon who suggested me to write a novel: ah ah, it has been a WIP for some months :3 (in French, though)
> 
> Thank you so much, and goodnight, moons.


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